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FUO.M 


PETOFI  AND  OTHER  HUNGARIAN  POETS, 

[TIIAXSLATKDJ 

WITH   A  MEMOIR  OF  THE  FORMER, 

AND  A 


BY 


^TW        ^(^^'  1® 


^yw^m 


^'Liberty  uiid  sweet  Love, 
Tliese  two  I  ever  need; 
Willingly  I  would  yield 
For  Love  my  life's  poor  meed: 
IJnt  even  my  love  would  yield 
To  Freedom's  rlnim  thereof." 

rKTOFI. 


PUBLlSf^ED  BY 

Paul  O.  D^Esterhazy^ 

29  BROAD  ST,  N.  Y, 

1881. 


vd 


rjUNTKI)    AT    13    WALKKK  STKKKT,    N.    Y. 


FROM 


PETOFI  AND  OTHER  HUNGARIAN  POETS, 

[TRANSLATED] 

WITH  A  MEMOIR  OF  THE  FORMER, 

AND  A 


BY 


"Liberty  and  sweet  Love, 
These  two  I  ever  need ; 
Willingly  I  would  yield 
For  Love  my  life's  poor  meed ; 
But  even  my  love  would  yield 
To  Fredom's  claim  thereof." 

Petopi. 


PUBLISI^ED  BY 

Paul  O.  D'Esterhazy, 
29  BROAD  ST.,  N.  Y. 
1881. 


Printed  at  13  Walker  Street,  N.  Y. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress  in  the  year  1881  by 

PAUL  O.  D'ESTERHaZY, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


6 


PREFACE. 


In  oifering  this  volume  to  the  notice  of  American  readers  the 
publisher  and  the  translator  have  a  twofold  object  in  view? 
viz. — a  desire  for  the  honor  and  more  general  understanding  and 
appreciation  of  their  native  land,  and  a  heartfelt  sense  of 
affection  and  respect  for  the  land  of  their  adoption. 

There  are  certain  achievements  in  art  which  belong  at  once 
to  the  world,  and  need  no  medium  of  language  to  convey  their 
special  value  and  meaning.  Such  are  those  of  Music,  Painting, 
Sculpture  and  Architecture. 

In  these  arts,  especially  in  the  two  first-mentioned,  Hungary 
has  proved  herself  no  sluggard,  as  Americans  will  be  among  the 
first  to  recognize.  It  is  the  aim  of  the  present  work  to  show,  in 
an  earnest,  loving  and  reverent  spirit,  that  the  historic  and  storied 
land  of  the  Magyar  has  had,  and  still  has,  poets — God-born 
sons  of  song — who  have  written  in  immortal  verse  of  her  sufi'er- 
ings  and  her  hates,  her  triumphs  and  her  loves. 

In  the  literature  of  a  country  alone  are  its  desires,  senti- 
ments and  sympathies  definitely  and  intelligibly  expressed,  and 
its  esoteric  kinship  with  the  rest  of  the  world  made  manifest. 

If  the  issue  of  these  translations  contribute  to  this  end  the 
labor  expended  upon  then  will  not  be  considered  as  in  vain. 


Paul  O.  D'Esterhazy, 

Publisher. 

Wm.  N.  Loew, 

Translator. 


New  York,  November  1881. 


iviasesio 


SONNET. 

What  worthier  tribute  could  thy  children  pay, 
Land  of  the  Magyar,  set  on  suffering's  height. 
Than  bring  thy  hidden  charms  to  all  men's  sight, 
And  to  the  world  thy  wealth  of  song  display? 
We  Icnow  thy  glorious  record's  long  array, 
Thy  plains  from  heroes'  graves  with  verdure  bright 
Thy  clear,  sweet  streams,  ensanguined  oft  by  fight, 
Thy  peaks  o'er  which  dawned  freedom's  militant  day 

But  those  who  srrg  with  mutable  voices  clear 
Of  war,  of  love,  of  freedom,  of  desire, 
And  tuned  in  turn  the  slack  strings  of  thy  lyre 
We  fain  would  know,  and  hold  their  music  dear. 
Echoing  it  back  from  this  far  hemisphere, 
Where  love  and  freedom  fetterless  i-espire ! 

JOHN  MORAN. 

Nkw  Yokk,  November  1881, 


ALEXANDER  PETOFI, 

A  MEMOIR  OF  THE  GREAT  HUNGARIAN   POET  AND  A 
REVIEW  OF  HUNGARY'S  POETICAL  LITERATURE. 


"Liberty  and  sweet  Love, 
These  two  I  ever  need; 
WiUingly  I  would  yield 
For  Love  my  life's  poor  meed; 
But  even  my  love  would  yield 
To  Freedom's  claim  thereof." 

Petofi. 

I. 

THE  Hungarian  revolution  of  the  year  1848-9,  has,  during 
this  century,  in  a  more  eminent  degree  than  any  other  historical 
event  directed  the  attention  of  the  world  to  the  home  of  Petofi.  Of 
the  many  distinguished  men  with  whom  in  these  momentous  years 
the  world  became  acquainted,  there  are  few,  perhaps,  much  more  ad- 
mired by  Hungary  herself,  or  that  come  recommended  to  the  notice 
of  an  observing  student  with  much  more  interest  than  Alexander 
Petofi. 

Whether  considered  as  the  brilliant  genius,  who,  grasping  the 
lute  of  the  Hungarian  people,  imparted  to  it  a  more  harmonious 
string  and  a  sweeter  tone  than  it  probably  ever  had,  or,  considered 
as  the  young  warrior — a  chieftain  of  liberty  throughout  the  world — 
who,  with  sword  in  hand  struggling  for  freedom,  fell  a  victim  to 
his  valor  and  heroism ;  or  considered  as  a  nation's  great  poet,  who 
was  equally  great  as  a  dutiful  citizen ; — his  story  is  calculated  to 
strike  forcibly  the  attention  and  to  touch  the  springs  of  admiration 
and  of  sympathy  in  no  common  sense.  The  character  of  the  times 
in  which  he  lived,  the  cause  he  served,  his  own  adventures,  his  deep 
devotion  to  the  muses  during  all  his  lifetime,  his  participation  in  a 
most  glorious  war,  the  amiable  qualities  and  fine  taste  developed  in 
his  writings,  above  all  the  influence  of  his  songs  over  the  nation — all 
offer  to  the  essayist  a  theme  more  fertile  than  usually  falls  to  his  lot 
in  recording  the  lives  of  poets,  and  one  upon  which  he  would  love 
to  bestow  the  illustratipii  it  deserves, 


VI 

Both  language  and  versification  present  themselves  more  fully 
formed  and  more  vigorous  in  the  poetry  written  by  Hungarians  since 
the  beginning  of  the  last  quarter  of  the  last  century;  and  this  pro- 
gress is  a  matter  of  no  surprise  if  we  attend  to  the  multitude  of  cir- 
cumstances which  at  that  time  concurred  to  favor  poetical  thought. 
Francis  Toldy^  beyond  doubt  the  very  foremost  Hungarian  literary 
historian,  calls  the  period  then  beginning  "the  age  of  second  prime" 
and  defines  the  same  to  extend  from  the  year  1772  to  1849,  dividing 
it  into  three  periods,  to  wit:  a)  the  epoch  of  rejuvenation  (1772-1807), 
commencing  with  the  appearance  of  Bessenyei  and  extending  to,  and 
including  Alexander  Kisfaludy;  5)  the  epoch  of  the  purifying  and 
beautifying  of  the  national  idiom  (1807-1830)-a  memorable  period 
in  the  history  of  Hungarian  literature,  covering  the  labors  of  Francis 
Kazinczy,  of  Charles  Kisfaludy  and  partly  of  Michael  Yorosmarty; 
and  finally  c)  the  Szechenyi  period  (1830-1849),  in  which  Hungarian 
language,  poetry  and  science,  as  well  as  Hungarian  national  life  and 
politics,  developed  themselves  to  a  high  degree,  surpassed  only  in 
the  eminence  attained  by  the  country  during  the  last  few  years 
(1865-1881). 

This  division  is  not  merely  the  dictum  of  one  man.  The  nation 
adopted  it  and  the  Hungarian  Academy  of  Sciences,  the  foremost 
scientific-literary  body  of  the  land,  celebrated  in  1872  the  centennial 
birthday  of  rejuvenated  Hungarian  literature. 

Hungarian  patriots — says  Toldy  while  speaking  of  those  days — 
noticed  with  sadness  that  the  traditional  tongue  was  beginning  to 
lose  the  hold  it  had  upon  the  masses.  The  more  educated  classes 
ignored  it  almost  entirely  and  the  Magyar  language  was  in  danger  of 
dying  out  and  utterly  perishing.  The  chosen  few  knew  but  too  well, 
that,  when  once  the  language  of  a  nation  is  sacrificed,  the  nation's 
fate  is  sealed;  and  with  a  hearty  will  they  undertook  to  rescue  the 
ancient  race  and  tongue.  George  Bessenyei  became  the  leader 
of  the  school  which  undertook  to  imbue  with  fresh  life  the  degenerated 
race.  He  stood  at  the  head  of  a  noble  army  of  literary  warriors,  who 
did  their  work  well,  so  that  when,  but  few  years  after  Bessenyei's  first 
appearance,  [Joseph  IT,  the  Austrian  emperor  (Hungarian  king  de 
facto  only,  but  not  de  jure,  inasmuch  as  he  never  took  the  oath  of 
allegiance  and  was  not  crowned  as  such)  ordained  the  a -^option  and 
use  of  the  German  language  not  only  in  the  administrative,  but 
partly  also  in  the  educational  departments  of  Hungary,  the  nation 
was  found  wide  awake.  A  healthy  reaction  had  set  in,  producing 
the  most  beneficial  results,  and  the  first  systematized  attempt  to 
Germanize  the  Magyar  nation  became  an  ignominious  failure.  An- 
other attempt  to  wipe  out  and  to  crush  Hungarian  nationality,  and 
one  more  dangerous  than  the  first,  perpetrated  by  Austrian  emperors 


(  vn 

sixty  odd  years  later,  culminated  in  that  heroic,  bloody  struggle  in 
one  of  the  encounters  of  which  the  hero  of  this  literary  essay  and 
biographical  sketch  fell  with  an  inspiring  battle-hymn  on  his  lips  and 
a  powerfully  wielded  sword  in  his  hand. 

During  these  more  then  seventy  years  of  struggles  (1772 — 1849) 
to  place  the  Hungarian  nation  on  a  healthy,  sound  basis  of  national 
life,  to  restore  the  Magyar  language,  and  to  establish  with  its  aid  a 
Hungarian  literature  of  merit  and  value,  Hungary  presents  the  strik- 
ing and  peculiar  appearance  of  seeing  its  national  life  almost  exclu- 
sively resting  on  the  shoulders  of  its  authors  and  its  poets.  Count 
E7nil  Dessev^jfy,  a  prominent  Magyar  national  economist  said  the 
truth  when  he  called  the  litterateurs  of  those  days  the  "soldiers  of 
the  national  cause."  It  is  truly  remarkable  that,  almost  without  any 
exception,  every  statesman  and  politician  of  that  period  to  whose 
share  it  fell  to  battle  against  the  despotic  encroachments  on  the 
national  constitution  by  Austria,  or  to  battle  for  reform  and  advance- 
ment within,  is  a  poet  or  an  author.  Exceptions  are  the  stalwart 
sons  of  the  varmegyek  (comitatus- county)  (vice-ishpans  and  notaries, 
etc.  etc.)  who  did  the  actual  fighting.  Nowadays  politicians,  states- 
men are  entrusted  with  this  sacred  task,  but,  from  the  early  days  of 
this  century  up  to  the  breaking  out  of  the  great  revolution  in  1848, 
Hungarian  literary  writers  were  the  guardian  angels  of  the  nation's 
cause,  protecting  this  by  watching  over  the  nation's  language  "and 
tending  it  with  the  same  piety,  with  which  the  Vestal  virgins  kept 
up  the  sacred  fire  to  which  the  destinies  of  their  country  were  bound 
forever"  (Francis  Pulszky). 

George  Bessenyei  (1742-1811)  is  the  acknowledged  founder  of 
the  present  school  of  Hungarian  literature,  and  his  greatest  merit, 
his  foremost  claim  to  the  gratitude  of  his  country,  lies  in  the  fact  of 
having  brought  the  conviction  to  the  mind  of  his  contemporaries  that 
a  nation  can  only  be  civilized  with  the  aid  of  its  own  vernacular 
idiom.  The  period  between  Bessenyei  and  Petofi  covers  the  most 
interesting  epoch  in  the  history  of  Hungarian  poetical  literature. 
It  is  with  a  certain  degree  of  self-denial  that  we  abstain  from  giving 
its  specific  history  here,  but  this  would  outrun  the  limits  of  the  pre- 
sent task.  We  content  ourselves  therefore  with  a  mere  cursory 
review  and  leave  the  thirst  for  knowledge  awakened  by  these  lines 
to  be  satisfied  by  the  perusal  of  works  more  broad  and  more  com- 
prehensive in  their  scope  than  are  these  brief  explanatory  remarks. 
What  a  glorious  task  one  would  have  in  fully  describing  the  labors 
of  Bessenyei  and  his  disciples.  Baron  Lawrence  Orczi,  Abraham 
Barcsay,  Alexander  Baroczi,  Paul  Anyos,  Count  Joseph  Teleki  and 
Joseph  Peczeli,  the  members  of  the  so-called  French  school  of  Hung- 
arian literature,  which,  although  it  did  not  lead  the  poetry  of  the 


Yjii 

nation  into  its  Higher  spheres :  the  national  establishment  of  a  stand- 
ard of  the  pure  and  of  the  beautiful,  inasmuch  as  it  contented  itself 
with  securing  the  recognition  of  reflection  and  harmony,  has  never- 
theless, by  enlarging  the  poetical  horizon  and  wealth  of  thought, 
by  correcting  the  technique  of  versification,  and  finally  by  establish- 
ing the  refined  prose  fiction,  done  a  great  deal  to  lead  the  same  into 
the  pathways  of  advancement. 

What  a  grateful  task  it  would  be  to  write  of  the  "classical 
school"  in  the  ranks  of  which  Benedict  Viragh  (1752-1830)  occupies 
a  high  place.  Here  we  would  meet  with  the  names  of  Gabriel 
Dayka,  Francis  Verseghi,  Francis  Kazinczy,  the  poems  of  all  of 
whom  conclusively  show  that  among  all  modern  languages  Hungar- 
ian can  most  successfully  compete  with  the  classic  beauty  and  the 
majesty  of  expression  and  form  of  that  of  Rome.  They  introduced 
the  hexameter  of  the  epos  and  the  various  forms  of  the  ode,  etc.  into 
Hungary's  poetry,  where  since  then  they  are  nursed  with  loving 
care. 

Continuing  our  labor  we  soon  would  meet  with  the  name  of 
Michael  Vitez  Csokonai  (1773-1805),  whose  charming  songs  must 
ever  remain  a  highly  valued  treasure  of  the  Hungarian  people. 
After  a  brief  introduction  to  John  Kiss,  to  David  Baroti  Szabo  and 
Andrew  Dugonics,  we  would  meet  with  that  mighty  genius  and 
brilliant  mind  Alexander  Kisfaludy,  whom  the  Hungarians  love  to 
call  their  own  Petrarch.  It  is  Alexander  Kisfaludy  (1772-1844), 
who  can  be  considered  to  have  established  an  entirely  new  national 
poetry.  The  power  of  his  language,  the  beauty  of  his  lyrical 
genius,  his  refined  taste,  his  rich  creative  fancy  and  his  national, 
patriotic  spirit  marked  an  epoch  in  Hungarian  Poetry. 

"Himfy's  Love",  his  foremost  poetical  work,  is  a  lyrical  novel, 
or  rather  a  long  series  of  pictures  of  a  heart  overflowing  with  the 
purest  and  holiest  of  loves.  His  "Tales  from  Hungary's  past  ages" 
are  equally  noble  creations,  which  have  the  additional  merit  of 
being  the  most  faithful  pictures  of  the  characto"  the  virtue  and 
the  thoughts  of  the  Magyar  people. 

Still  engaged  in  our  labor  of  love  we  would  soon  once  more 
recur  to  Francis  Kazinczy  (1759-1831),  whom  we  have  mentioned 
already,  one  of  the  founders  of  the  classic  poetry  of  the  Magyar, 
which  he  and  his  colleagues,  Daniel  Berzsenyi  and  Francis  Kolcscy, 
elevated  to  its  highest  perfection.  We  would  commit  a  sin  of  omis- 
sion did  we  neglect  to  record  the  fact  that  this  inspired  poet 
Kazinczy,  was  one  of  the  great  leaders  of  social  and  political  ref  orr 
in  Hungary,  and  that  the  purifying  of  the  Magyar  tongue  and  the 
beautifying  of  the  language  found  in  him  the  ablest  and  the  most 
influential  sponsor  it  ever  had.      The   poetry   of   his   day   is   al- 


IX 

most  entirely  bare  of  all  poetical  significance;  and  love,  friendship, 
the  joys  and  the  cares  of  life  are  its  themes.  Only  here  and  there 
resounded  an  ode  reminding  the  patriot  of  the  glory  and  the 
greatness  of  the  nation's  former  days,  and  especially  Berzseny's 
odes  have  historical  importance  for  the  earnestness  of  zeal  and 
devotion  with  which  he  calls  on  his  country  to  learn  the  past,  to 
understand  the  present  and  thus  to  be  enabled  intelligently  to  meet 
what  fate  the  future  may  have  in  store  for  it.  To  this  school  of 
poetry  belong  Paul  Szemere,Alois  Szentmiklossy,  Michael  Helmeczy, 
Gabriel  Dobrentei,  Andrew  Fay  and  a  long  list  of  others,  such  poets 
as  every  civilized  nation  possesses  in  large  numbers,  till  at  last  we 
arrive  at  the  triumvirate  of  lyrical  poetry,  Charles  Kisfaludy  (the 
brother  of  Alexander  above  named),  Joseph  Bajza  and  Michael 
Vorosmarty,  three  great  lights  in  Hungary's  literary  firmament. 

Charles  Kisfaludy  (1788-1830),  one  of  the  most  prominent 
founders  of  Hungarian  drama^^ic  poetry,  is  a  lyrical  poet  of  great 
power.  No  Magyar  poet  has  known  how  to  draw  from  rural  objects 
so  many  tender  and  melancholy  sentiments.  A  turtle-dove,  a  hind, 
an  oak  thrown  down,  a  fallen  ivy-plant  strike  him,  agitate  him  and 
excite  his  tenderness  and  enthusiasm. 

He  has  another  excellent  quality,  that  of  painting  to  the  ear 
by  means  of  imitative  harmony,  making  the  sounds  bear  analogy  to 
the  image.  He  breaks  them,  he  suspends  them,  he  drags  them 
wearily  along,  he  precipitates  them  into  mildness —  in  short  they 
some  times  roll  fluently  along,  at  others  they  pierce  the  ear  with 
an  abrupt  and  striking  melody.  After  Kisfaludy's  death  (1830) 
Francis  Toldy  with  ten  friends,  the  foremost  poets  of  the  period, 
founded  the  Kisfaludy  Society,  originally  with  the  intention  of 
publishing  his  works,  and  from  the  proceeds  erecting  a  statue  to  his 
memory.  The  works  were  published,  the  statue  was  erected,  but 
the  most  noble  statue  to  his  honor  is  the  Society  itself,  which,  re- 
maining in  existence,  became,  and  is  to-day,  a  most  influential  and 
beneficial  literr'iTf  organisation  of  the  land,  the  yearly  publications 
of  which  are  a  rich  literary  treasure. 

Joseph  Bajza  (1804-1858)  is  the  grandmaster  of  Hungary's 
lyrical  poetry.  Melancholy  and  the  most  delicious  sadness,  a  distil- 
lation of  pains,  griefs  and  martyrdoms,  subdue  all  his  thoughts,  but 
knowing  that  by  continuous  repetition  they  must  become  burden- 
some, he  adopted  the  method  of  personifying  his  various  concept- 
ions of  sorrow  and  sadness  and  letting  these  creations  of  his  fancy 
"Ve  expression  to  their  feelings.  Thus  he  gives  us  the  heart-rend- 
ing complaints  of  a  bride  whose  bridegroom  died,  of  a  mother  who 
lost  her  child,  of  an  exile,  of  a  widow,  of  a  fallen  soldier — etc.,  etc., 
poems  which  bring  all  our  faculties  of  soul  and  mind  into  harmon- 


lous  action.  In  his  political  and  patriotic  songs  he  rises  to  the  com- 
manding heights  of  the  ode  and  displays  a  burning  soul,  strong  and 
sublime  in  its  love  for  the  fatherland,  strong  and  sublime  in  its 
hatred  of  the  nation's  enemies. 

MichaelVorosmarty  (1800-1855)  is  "the  noblest  Roman  of  them 
all";  the  king  among  Hungarian  poets.  He  not  only  gave  new 
aims  to  the  nation's  poetry,  he  created  an  epoch!  His  poetry  posses- 
ses many  high  qualities,  noble  thoughts,  pure  feelings,  beauty  of 
form  and  perfection  in  rhythm  and  rhyme,  simplicity  of  expression, 
liveliness  and  tenderness  of  emotions,  luxury  and  smiling  amenity 
of  fancy.  He  loves  Nature,  Spring,  Mountain  and  Rill  etc.,  but  he 
loves  most  his  Hungarian  fatherland,  the  greatness,  the  glory,  the 
welfare  of  which  is  dearest  to  his  heart.  His  "Szozat"  (Appeal), 
"Fotidal"  (The  song  fromFot);  "Liszt  Ferenczhez"  (To  Francis 
Liszt) ;  "A  ven  czigamy"  (The  hoary  gipsy) — are  masterpieces  of 
poetical  literature,  bearing  comparison  with  the  most  excellent 
productions  of  Longfellow  and  Tennyson.  He  is  at  home  in  every 
poetical  form  and  his  patriotic  epos,  "Zalan  futasa"  (The  flight  of 
Zalan),  gives  a  poetical  history  of  the  foundation  of  the  country 
by  Arpad,  in  a  manner  that  thrills  the  reader.  Equally  great  is  he 
as  a  writer  of  romances  and  ballads,  as  a  dramatic  author  and  as 
a  Shakespearian  translator. 

Having  done  justice  to  the  immortal  genius  of  Yorosmarty,  we 
would  then,  continuing  our  review,  restricting  our  attention  only 
to  the  very  best  names, — to  the  labors  of  Gregory  Czuczor,  John 
Garay,  Baron  Joseph  Eotvos,  Alexander  Vachott,  Joseph  Szekacs, 
Bela  Tarkanyi  and  Michael  Tompa, — have  arrived  in  the  very  midst 
of  the  period  in  which  our  hero,  Alexander  Petofi,  lived. 

II. 

Poets  of  merit  and  of  genius  usually  rise  to  the  level  of  the 
events  passing  around  them.  The  compositions  of  Virgil  and  Horace 
in  Rome  correspond  with  the  dignity,  majesty  and  greatness  of  the 
empire.  Dante  in  his  extraordinary  poem  shows  himself  inspired 
by  all  sentiments  which  the  rancor  of  fiction,  civil  dissensions  and 
the  effervescence  of  men's  minds  stirred  up.  Schiller  in  his  poems, 
especially  in  his  dramatic  poems  rises,  to  a  level  with  the  elevation  to 
which  the  human  mind  was  rising  at  his  period  in  Germany ;  Shelley 
and  Byron  were  both  exponents  of  the  movements  of  their  day,  and 
Petofi  could  be  no  exception  to  this  rule. 

We  have  already  seen  that,  during  the  years  heretofore  covered 
by  our  review,  a  struggle  of  supreme  importance  was  carried  on  in 


I 


XI 

Hungary.  No  nation  on  the  European  continent  carried  on  similar 
struggles  with  more  fierceness  and  determination,  with  a  more 
earnest  devotion  to  the  cause  of  freedom,  nor  were  the  same 
anywhere  else  surpassed  in  the  importance  of  the  issues  in- 
volved. It  was  a  desperate  struggle  for  constitutional  life 
and  advanced  culture,  nay,  a  nation  fought  bravely  for  its 
historical  existence,  to  be  secured  not  only  by  victories  attained 
through  clashing  and  crossing  of  swords  and  the  thunders  of 
cannon,  but  by  the  gentle  influences  of  the  nation's  culture  and 
civilization,  art  and  science,  industry  and  commerce  and  in  fine  by 
a  pure,  beautiful  and  rich  language  spoken  and  appreciated  by  all 
inhabitants  of  the  land.  This  awakening  of  the  national  spirit  was 
the  reply  that  the  nation  gave  to  Austria's  bold  attempt  to  bring 
Hungary,  nowithstanding  her  ancient  constitution — this  mighty 
pillar  of  civil  liberty — under  her  absolute  control. 

Francis  Kazinczy,  Baron  Nicolas  Wesselenyi,  Count  Aurelius 
Dessewify,  Francis  Kolcsey,  Count  Stephen  Szechenyi,  Count  George 
Apponyi,  Francis  Deak,  Louis  Kossuth,  Baron  Joseph  Eotvos,  Gab- 
riel Klauzal,  Bartholomew  Szemere,  Edmond  Beothy,  Ladislaus 
Szalay,  Anton  Csengery  and  others,  too  numerous  to  mention,  had 
done  noble  work.  A  state,  intellectually  and  politically  a  relic  of 
past  centuries,  they  changed  into  a  modern  state  with  culture  civi- 
lization, and  advanced  political  thought ;  into  a  state  which  developed 
rich  economical  resources,  all  of  which  caused  the  world  to  look  with 
sympathizing  amazement  to  the  handful  of  Magyars  on  the 
banks  of  the  Danube  and  the  Tisza.  It  was  the  result  of  their  labor 
that  the  spendthrift  Hungarian  magnates  became  industrious, 
dutiful  citizens,  freely  relinquishing  ancient  priveleges  and  freely 
assuming  burdens,  having  the  welfare  of  the  country  at  heart;  that 
the  serfs  were  made  free ;  that  universal  suffrage,  no,  not  universal 
but  a  liberal,  general  right  of  suffrage,  was  introduced ;  that  the 
language  of  the  country  was  by  strong  enactments  secured ;  that  the 
Hungarian  Academy  of  Sciences  and  the  Kisfaludy  Society  and  other 
institutions  of  learning  were  incorporated;  that  a  long  series  of  in- 
ternal improvements  were  begun  and  carried  out;  that  newspapers 
were  started,  schools  opened,  home  industry  developed;  that  the 
very  healthiest  life  was  made  to  pulse  in  the  veins  of  the  nation. 

In  these  momentous  years  of  national  agitation  grew  up  Alex- 
ander Petofi,  being  born  at  Little-Koros,  in  the  county  of  Pest,  dur- 
ing the  small  hours  of  the  new-year's  day  of  the  year  1823.  He  was 
the  older  of  the  two  sons  of  a  respectable  couple,  named  Petrovich. 
His  parents,  at  the  commencement  of  their  conjugal  union  tolerably 
well  off  regarding  worldly  circumstances,  found  themselves  after  a 
while — owing  partly  to  elemental  inflictions,  partly  to  the  advantage 


xn 

taken  of  their  good  nature  by  some  designing  "friends" — so  much 
reduced  in  their  affluence  that  they  had  to  quit  their  comfortable 
home  in  search  for  an  improvement  of  their  condition  in  various 
parts  of  the  lowland  (alf  old)  without  ever  finding  any.  Old  Petrovich 
(Petofi  is  the  Hungarian  translation  of  this  name  of  Slavic  origin, 
which  our  hero  adopted  in  his  later  years),  carried  on  the  honest 
trade  of  a  butcher  and  seems  to  have  been  a  simple,  goodhearted 
and  goodnatured  man  of  the  people.  The  mother  of  Petofi  was 
evidently  one  of  nature's  noble  ladies.  Several  of  her  son's  poetical 
effusions,  wherein  he  gives  free  vent  to  the  most  tender  feelings  of 
love  and  gratitude  toward  her,  stamp  her  as  such  a  one.  Petofi 
received  his  first  elementary  instruction  at  various  primary  schools, 
almost  all  of  them  evangelical  parochial  schools,  they  being  by  far 
superior  to  the  other  schools  of  the  period.  His  education  included 
lessons  in  music  and  drawing,  and  though  he  did  not  bring  it  to  any 
perfection  in  either,  they  must  have  had  a  beneficial  influence  over 
his  aesthetic  feeling  and  taste. 

In  his  fifteenth  year  we  find  him  at  the  evangelical  "Lyceum" 
at  Selmecz  (Schemnitz).  He  made  here  great  proficiency  in  grammar 
and  language  which  was  of  great  use  in  unfolding  his  genius  and 
character.  He  soon  became  remarkable  for  the  fluency  and  correctness 
of  his  expression,  and  he  read  with  much  pleasure  and  improvement 
Hungarian  historical  works  and  Vorosmarty's  poems.  In  these  days 
he  wrote  his  first  poems,  which  were  well  received  by  his  colleagues. 
The  praises  of  his  schoolmates  and  friends  inspired  him  with  a  strong 
desire  to  excel  in  writing  poetry  and  he  fondly  hoped  to  see  one  of 
his  verses  in  print.  He  knew  not  however  how  to  ingratiate  himself 
with  his  teachers,  and  when  once  caught  being  a  regular  visitor  to 
the  theatrical  performances  of  a  German  strolling-players'  company 
then  performing  in  Selmecz,  and  this  in  spite  of  a  strong  prohibitory 
rule  of  the  school,  he  fell  into  sad  disgrace  in  the  eyes  of  his  worthy 
teachers,  and  the  report  was  sent  home  to  his  father,  that  Alexander 
is  an  irretrievable  dunce  and  good-for-nothing  fellow.  His  poor  old 
father,  believing  himself  to  be  disappointed  in  his  most  fondly 
cherished  hopes,  was  almost  stricken  down  with  grief  over  his  son's 
"fall"  and  sent  him  a  sharp  remonstrance,  which  made  the  latter  so 
deeply  hurt  and  so  sick  and  sore  at  heart,  that  he  decided  upon 
abandoning  his  studies  and  leaving  Selmecz.  Years  after  this,  rem- 
embering his  days  in  this  school,  the  poor  grading  he  received  at 
the  examination,  and  prompted  by  some  wanton,  reckless  humor,  he 
wrote  these  lines : 

Diligently  I  attended 

Years  ago  my  classes,  yet 
My  professors  then  expelled  me, 

Being  a  most  stupid  set. 


xm 


He  soon  carried  out  his  intentions  and  one  night  he  left  Selmecz, 
wandering  aimlessly  about  the  country,  till  at  last  he  reached  Pest. 
Here  he  forthwith  went  to  the  theatre,  believing  he  would  find  there 
all  his  ambitions  soul  longed  for.  But  only  a  very  subordinate  po- 
sition as  "super"  could  he  secure,  and  for  some  time  he  led  the  life  of 
a  vagrant,  without  however  corrupting  his  morals  and  the  noble 
purity  of  his  soul.  His  father  soon  found  out  his  whereabouts  and 
came  to  Pest  to  take  him  home,  but  the  proud,  haughty  son  evaded 
him  and  went  rather  with  an  uncle  to  Asszonyfa,  a  little  village  in 
Vas  county.  Here  he  spent  a  few  months,  reading  the  ancient  clas- 
sics and  writing  poetry.  The  peaceful,  quiet  life,  which  had  dawned 
upon  him  here,  was  of  short  duration.  For  some  trifling  cause  he 
fell  out  with  his  uncle  and,  going  to  Soprony  (Oedenburgh),  he  en- 
listed as  a  volunteer  in  one  of  the  infantry  regiments  stationed  at 
that  town,  expecting  that  his  regiment  would  be  sent  to  Italy  and 
he  be  thus  enabled  to  get  acquainted  with  the  classic  soil  upon 
which  his  favorite  poet,  Horace,  trod.  In  this,  however,  he  was  sadly 
disappointed,  for,  instead  of  being  sent  to  sunny  Italy,  his  regiment 
was  garrisoned  in  some  out-of-the-way  town  of  Tyrol  and  only  after 
some  years  of  hard  service  as  a  private,  doing  all  the  menial  dut- 
ies of  such  a  one,  suffering  from  exposure  and  want,  and  bearing  all 
sorts  of  abuse  from  illiterate,  vulgar,  petty  superiors,  was  he  in 
1841,  through  the  aid  of  a  humane  regimental  physician,  who  took 
great  interest  in  his  poetical  effusions,  which  never  ceased  during 
this  time,  discharged  from  the  onerous  service,  to  which  a  rash  step 
had  subjugated  him. 

In  May  1841,  he  once  more  trod  upon  his  native  soil,  visited — 
constantly  tramping — some  friends  at  Pozsony  (Pressburgh), 
Soprony  and  Papa,  and  ventured  to  knock  again  at  the  parental 
door  He  stayed  home  for  a  while,  and  there  was  only  one  thing 
which  interfered  with  his  pure  enjoyment  of  domestic  life,  to  wit, 
his  father's  earnest  desire  that  he,  the  son,  settle  down  to  the  honor- 
able calling  of  a  butcher,  which  insinuation  poor  Alexander,  to  the 
great  distress  of  the  old  man,  repudiated  with  intense  horror. 

We  soon  meet  him  in  Papa  (county  of  Veszprim),  industrious- 
ly studying  and  still  more  industriously  rhyming  and  versifying, 
even  winning  a  prize  for  a  lyrical  poem,  "Lehel",  which  was  offered 
by  a  literary  society,  composed  of  the  students  of  the  college.  Then 
follow  years  of  struggle  for  histrionic  fame,  of  appearing  here  and 
there  as  member  of  this  or  the  other  strolling  company,  and  of 
enduring  everywhere  failures  and  disappointements. 

In  1843  he  again  came  to  Pest,  but  with  a  name  somewhat 
known,  for  the  poems  the  newspapers  had  heretofore  published 
under  his  name  Petrovich,  or  the  nom  de  plume  "Ponogei  Kis  Pal", 


XIV 

and  finally  under  the  adopted  name  "Petofi",  opened  for  him  the 
doors  to  literary  cireles,  which  at  his  former  visit  to  the  capital  had 
been  securely  closed  against  him.  The  first  employment  he  found 
on  coming  to  Pest  was  an  engagement  to  translate  foreign  novels 
into  the  Magyar.  Of  these,  he  completed  two,  i.  e."The  aged  Lady", 
a  French  novel  by  Charles  Bernard,  and  the  well  known  "Robin 
Hood"  of  George  James.  His  insatiable  desire  to  become  an  actor 
of  fame  led  him  again  on  the  stage,  but  he  again  encountered  fail- 
ures, and  after  remaining,  during  the  winter  of  1843-1844,  in  Debre- 
czen,  suffering  there  almost  for  the  want  of  daily  necessities,  he  at 
last  received  a  call  to  return  to  Pest,  to  fill  the  position  of  Ass't- 
Editor  of  "Eletkepek",  a  literary  journal,  edited  by  Adolphus 
Frankenburg.  Arriving  in  Pest,  he  soon  succeeded,  with  the  aid  of 
Vorosmarty,in  finding  a  publisher  for  his  poems,  the  "National  Club" 
(Nemzeti  Kor),  consenting  to  buy  his  Mss.  Emerich  Vahot  engaged 
him  then  as  Ass't-Editor  of  his  "Divatlap" ;  but  not  before  Petofi 
had  once  more  made  an  effort  to  secure  recognition  in  the  ser. 
vice  of  Thalia  and  Melpomene.  He  again  appeared  on  the  stage, 
and  on  no  less  a  one  at  that  than  the  "National  Theater"  at  Pest; 
but  his  appearance  was  again  abortive.  This  last  failure  cured  him 
of  his  stage-fever  and  he  finally  abandoned  all  thought  of  becoming 
an  actor.  His  poetical  works  followed  now  in  rapid  succession. 
Volume  after  volume  of  the  most  delicious  poetical  fiction  was  pub- 
lished by  him.  About  this  time  he  wrote  his  "Janos  Vitez"  (John 
the  hero),  and  his  "A  helyseg  kalapacsa"  (The  village  bell-ringer), 
and  his  only,  but  remarkable,  novel  "A  hoher  kotele"  (The  hang- 
man's rope).  (Professor  Rasmus  Anderson  of  the  University  of 
Wisconsin  translated  this  work  of  Petofi  into  English.)  It  was 
also  about  this  time  that  Petofi  wrote  two  dramatic  poems, 
"Zold  Marczi"  (Greenhorn  Marc),  and  "Tigris  es  Hyaena" 
(Tiger  and  Hyaena),  none  of  which  however  left  anyvisible 
traces  in  the  literature  of  the  nation.  It  was  at  this  period 
also  that  he  devoted,  much  of  his  time  to  foreign  literature,  and 
translations  from  Beranger,  Shelley  and  Byron  followed  in  succes- 
sion. His  industrious  and  fertile  genius  planned  the  publication  of 
a  Magyar  translation  of  the  dramatic  works  of  Shakespeare,  and  he 
associated  himself  for  this  purpose  with  Vorosmarty.  Petofi's  first 
translation  was  "Coriolanus",  while  Vorosmarty's  first  effort  was 
"King  Lear".  The  coming  revolution  prevented  these  two  great 
minds  from  completing  the  task  begun,  but,  many  years  later,  the 
"Kisfaludy  Society"  fathered  the  idea  of  Petofi  and  Vorosmarty 
and,  completing  the  translations,  gave  to  Hungary  a  most  excellent 
rendering  of  the  greatest  dramatic  genius  of  the  world. 

In  the  month  of  September  1846,  Petofi  married  Julia  Szendrey, 


a  yoiing  lady  of  remarkable  beauty,  of  noble  mind  and  of  tbe  purest 
soul,  which  happy  union  had  the  most  beneficial  influence  over  his 
muse.  He  was  then  in  the  zenith  of  his  fame;  all  the  country  read 
and  admired  his  poems,  while  his  popvflar  songs  (Nepdalok)  were 
being  heard  from  "Karpath's  mountains  to  Adria's  shores".  They 
were  sung  in  the  salons  of  the  proudest  aristocratic  magnates  and  in 
the  huts  of  the  humblest  peasant ;  thy  were  the  favorite  songs  in  the 
concert  saloons,  and  were  the  songs  which  the  artisans  accompanied 
with  their  labor;  the  farmer,  the  sturdy  son  of  toil  sang  them  while 
he  industriously  handled  his  scythe  and  sickle ;  the  merry  reveller  in 
the  public  house,  or  the  one  sick  at  heart,  who  in  wine  wanted  to  drown 
his  grief;  the  student  full  of  joy  and  vigor;  the  maiden  of  hope  and 
happiness;  the  mother  sitting  at  the  cradle  of  her  beloved  one  — 
all,  all  sang  his  beautiful  songs,  which  had  become,  and  which  yet 
remain,  the  treasures  of  the  people,  as  no  other  popular  songs  of  any 
poet  or  of  any  nation  have,  or  probably  ever  will,  become.  As  long 
as  the  human  heart  in  Hungary  pulsates  for  love  and  freedom,  the 
two  divine  subjects  of  Petoti's  songs,  they  will  be  cherished  with 
reverential  affection  by  a  grateful  country,  in  whose  heart  he  and  his 
songs  will  live  for  ever.  The  distinctions  crowded  on  him  were 
numerous.  One  comitatus  elected  him  as  a  "Tablabiro"  (Honorary 
county  judge);  ancient  cities  granted  him  their  freedom,  and  at 
almost  every  place  he  visited,  the  people  honored  him  with  torch- 
light processions  and  fetes. 

And  yet  he.  had  then  fulfilled  only  a  part  of  the  mission, 
to  fulfil  which  fate  seems  to  have  selected  him,  i.  e.  to  ins|)ire 
the  nation  with  his  songs  to  that  great  and  glorious  struggle  on 
which  it  was  about  to  enter. 

The  great  struggle  going  on  in  Hungary  during  these  years 
has  been  repeatedly  mentioned  heretofore.  We  have  also  stated 
that  Petofi  could  be  no  exception  to  the  rule  which  makes  poets 
of  genius  rise  to  the  level  of  the  events  which  pass  around 
them.  Petofi's  poems  are  pure  mirrors,  wherein  one  can  plainly 
see  the  struggle  of  the  times  going  on.  They  awakened  a  national 
spirit,  which  turned  with  feverish  devotion  to  home  affairs;  the 
conviction  that  it  is  the  duty  of  every  "Magyar  to  be  a  Magyar", 
to  love  the  fatherland  and  to  watch  with  scrupulous  care  over  the 
fatherland's  language,  industry  and  commerce,  etc.,  and  above  all 
over  its  freedom — all  this  is  plainly  visible  in  all  his  poems. 
That  boundless  spirit  of  liberty  which  enlivened  them  all,  stamped 
its  mark  even  on  the  forms  of  his  poetry,  and  they  are  truly  "free, 
as  the  eagles  of  the  air".  Petofi  describes  in  a  superbly  beautiful 
poem  "Dalaim",  "My  songs",  the  character  of  the  various  kinds  of 
his  songs.    Let  it  be  permitted  to  us  to  state  here  that  the  only 


XVI 

great  poet  with  whom  Petofi  can  be  most  successfully  compared 
— "a  Scottish  Bard,  proud  of  his  name,  and  whose  highest  ambit- 
ion is  to  sing  in  his  country's  service",  Robert  Burns,  gives  also 
in  a  poem  of  his  own  "Thfe  Bard's  Epitaph",  the  best  picture  of 
his  own  mind.  "Petofi  is  the  Burns  of  the  European  continent", 
writes  to  us  valued  friend,  Professor  Rasmus  Anderson,  a  great 
admirer  of  the  Magyar  poet,  and  this  is  a  strikingly  true  comparison, 
and  yet  though  we  are  the  most  ardent  and  devoted  admirer  of  the 
"Ayrshire  Ploughman",  we  honestly  believe  Petofi  to  be  superior 
to  the  author  of  "Tam  O'Shanter".  All  they  had  in  common  was 
their  humor,  their  melancholy,  their  piety,  their  anger,  their  pas- 
sion, their  homely  sagacity  and  sensitiveness ;  but  Petofi's  splendid 
and  perilous  richness  did  not  overflow,  and  never,  never  did  he 
write  a  sentence  which  the  most  sensitive  or  prudish  or  childish 
nature  could  not  safely  read.     Petofi  is  always  pure! 

Had  Petofi  lived  longer  his  poems  would  not  have  been  more 
deserving  of  contemporary  praise  or  the  perusal  of  posterity.  His 
earliest  flowers  show  us  what  the  fruits  of  his  genius 
would  have  been,  and  yet  he  is  grand  and  sublime,  although  he 
never  reached  even  the  autumn  of  life.  His  style  is  unaffected, 
his  thoughts  ingenious,  the  language  he  uses,  though  often  em- 
ployed upon  lowly  subjects,  never  sinks  into  poverty  or  meanness; 
he  is  full  of  the  lights,  the  shades,  the  colors,  the  ornaments, 
which  the  place  and  the  subject  require.  His  feelings  and  senti- 
ments are  not  new,  but  are  set  forth  in  a  manner  of  his  own, 
which  make  them  seem  so.  The  flowers  with  which  he  strews 
his  poetry  seem  to  spring  up  there  spontaneously,  the  lights  he 
introduces  to  fall  like  unconscious  sunshine  to  adorn  the  spot, 
where  he  has  placed  them.  His  versification,  simple,  clear  and 
flowing,  has  purity  and  music.  The  pause  of  his  verses  is  always 
full  of  beauty,  the  closing  melody  of  the  sentence  gratifying  the 
reader  as  he  rests.  If  love  is  the  subject  of  his  songs,  then  they 
are  full  of  fire  and  yet  full  of  soft,  mellow  tenderness;  if  he 
makes  family  feelings  the  subjects  of  his  songs,  then  they  are 
full  of  dignified  vivacity  and  inmost  devotion.  His  delicious 
landscapes  show  harmony  of  hues  and  brilliant  imagery,  and  are 
of  the  greatest  value  for  the  thoughts  and  the  feelings  they  are 
apt  to  awaken.  Some  time  he  rebukes  with  scathing  irony  the  faults 
and  shortcomings  of  his  fellowmen  and,  in  his  popular  songs,  he  gives 
full  vent  to  his  less  serious  and  more  easy  moods.  His  poetry 
is  a  picture  of  his  own  life.  He  makes  the  reader  the  confidential 
friend  of  his  thoughts,  hopes,  desires,  and  tells  him  all  about  him- 
self with  an  open,  manly  frankness  which  makes  him  soon  the 
object  of  our  love  and  esteem. 


XVII 

Then  came  the  memorable  year  1848.  Many  of  Petofi's  poems 
heretofore  written  contain  revolutionary  sentiments,— they  all 
breathe  the  air  of  freedom — but  on  the  15th  day  of  March  1848,  he 
opened  on  behalf  of  the  poetical  literature  of  Hungary  the  great 
struggle  known  as  the  "Revolution  in  Hungary".  The  song  with 
which  he  did  this,  is  the  Talpra  Magyar"  (Magyar,  Arise),  which 
became  the  very  foremost  war-song  of  Hungary.  As  a  national 
hymn  it  is  surpassed  only  by  Vorosmarty's  "Szozat"  (Call),  both  of 
which  songs  are  as  dear  to  the  Magyar's  heart  as  the  "Star-spangled 
banner"  is  to  the  true  American.  Then  followed  in  quick  succession 
a  long  array  of  inspiring  war  songs  which  steeled  the  arms  of  the 
nation.  He  became  a  member  of  the  National  Diet  (Orszaggyilles), 
the  electors  of  the  town  of  Felegyhaza  honoring  him  with  an  elec- 
tion. His  parliamentary  career,  however,  was  cut  short  by  the 
events  following,  and  in  September,  1848,  he  entered  the  Hungarian 
army  and  was  assigned  to  Bem's  army  corps  in  Transylvania.  The 
old  Polish  General  became  infatuated  with  the  spirited  brave  young 
man  and  appointed  him  as  his  Secretary  and  aid-de-camp.  His  duty- 
consisted  chiefly  in  writing  war  songs,  which  were  then  read  to  the- 
soldiers,  and  in  composing  the  various  "calls"  and  "manifestoes" 
the  events  necessitated.  But  in  the  actual  fight  he  was  also  bravely- 
at  his  post,  and  in  many  a  battle  did  he  distinguish  himself  by  his 
valor  and  bravery.  Excepting  a  few  weeks'  interval,  during  which 
time  he  enjoyed  .for  the  last  time  the  blessings  of  his  happy  home^, 
he  was  present  during  the  entire  of  Bem's  Transylvanian  campaign.. 
At  the  battle  of  Segesvar,  on  July  31st,  1849,  he  was  last  seen,  and 
it  is  now  settled  beyond  doubt  that  he  fell  there,  and  was  buried  in 
the  great  common  grave,  where,  after  the  battle,  all  the  heroic  dead, 
found  their  eternal  rest. 

Petofi  died  as  he  hoped  and  prayed  to  die.     In  his  "The  thought 
he  eloquently  sang: — 

When  every  nation  wearing  chains 

Shall  rise  and  seek  the  battle-plains, 

With  flushing  face  shall  wave  in  fight 

Their  banners,  blazoned  in  the  light: 

"For  liberty!" 

Their  cry  shall  be ; 

Their  cry  from  east  to  west. 

Till  tyrants  be  depressed. 

There  shall  I  gladly  yield 

My  life  upon  the  field; 

There  shall  my  heart's  last  blood  flow  out. 

And  I  my  latest  cry  shall  shout. 

May  it  be  drowned  in  clash  of  steel, 

In  trumpet's  and  in  cannon's  peal; 

And  o'er  my  corse 

Let  tread  the  horse, 

Which  gallops  home  from  victory's  gain, 

And  leaves  me  trodden  'mid  the  slain. 


XVIII 


For  the  better,  for  the  best,  characterization  of  Petofi,  we  will 
now  give  two  extracts  from  his  prose  writings,  published  many- 
years  after  his  death.  The  first  is  taken  from  the  "Diary"  he  faith- 
fully kept  during  the  last  year  of  his  life  at  home ;  the  second  is 
taken  from  a  letter  written  by  him  to  John  Arariy,  then  his  greatest 
rival,  to-day  the  poet  laureate  of  the  nation : 

" I  am  a  republican  with  body  and  soul" — he  writes  un- 

"der  the  date  of  April  19th,  1848 — "I  was  so  ever  since  I  have 
"learned  to  think  and  I  shall  remain  one  until  I  breathe  my  last. 
"These  strong  convictions,  wherein  I  never  wavered,  pressed  the 
"beggar's  staff,  I  carried  for  so  many  years,  into  my  hands :  and 
"these  strong  convictions  place  now  in  my  hands  the  palm  of  self- 
"respect.  During  the  time  when  souls  were  bought  and  paid  for  in 
"good  cash,  when  a  devoutly  bent  body  secured  the  future  of  a 
"man,  I  shunned  the  market,  bowed  to  no  one,  but  stood  erect  and 
"froze  and  suffered  hunger.  There  may  exist  lyres  and  pens  more 
"magnificent  and  more  grand  than  those  I  wield,  but  surely  none 
"exist  which  are  more  stainless  than  mine,  for  never,  never  did  I 
"hire  out  even  a  string  of  my  lute  or  but  a  stroke  of  my  pen, — I 
"sang  and  I  wrote  that  to  which  the  God  of  my  soul  prompted  me, 
"but  the  God  of  my  soul  is  liberty!" 

"Posterity  may  say  of  me  I  was  but  a  bad  poet, — but  at  the 
"same  time  it  must  also  say  of  me  that  I  was  strongly  moral  i.  e. — 
"for  it  is  one  and  the  same  thing — that  I  was  a  republican;  for  the 
"motto  of  a  true  republican  is  not:  'Down  with  the  Kings,'  but 
" 'Pure  morality'.  Not  the  crushed  crown,  no,  the  irreproachable 
"character,  the  upright  honesty,  are  the  foundations  of  the  repub- 

"lic without  these  you  may  storm  the  thrones  as  the  Titans  the 

"Heavens  and  you  will  be  repelled  with  lightnings;  with  these 
"however,  you  shall  fell  the  Monarchies  to  earth  as  David  felled 
"Goliath." 

"But  I  am  a  republican  out  of  religious  conviction.  The  men 
"of  Monarchies  believe  not  in  the  development,  the  advancement  of 
"the  world,  or  else  they  want  to  check  them — and  this  is  infidelity. 
"On  the  other  hand,  it  is  my  belief  that  the  world  developes  itself; 
"I  see  the  way  which  it  follows.  It  moves  but  slowly,  it  makes  a 
"step  every  hundred,  ay,  sometimes  even  only  every  thousand 
"years.     Why  should  it  hurry?  Is  not  Eternity  its  own?" 

To  Arany  he  writes  thus :  "Thy  letter  came  but  to-day  into 
"my  hands.  God  knows  how  many  hands  it  had  to  go  through  be- 
"fore  reaching  me.  But  this  is  my  own  fault;  for  in  my  exultation 
"I  forgot  to  let  you  know  my  address.  Yet,  I  am  accused  of  having 
"a  prejudice  against  poets,  that  is,  to  be  plain,  that  I  recognize  no 
"one,  outside  of  myself,  as  a  poet.     By  God!  this  is  a  dastardly 


XIX 


"slander.  It  is  true,  men  without  talent,  or  with  but  limited  talent 
'*who  imprudently  push  themselves  forward,  I  cannot  bear;  I  crush 
^*them,  if  I  can,  beneath  my  heels, — but  before  the  genuine  talent  I 
"bow  and  I  idolize  it.  Thy  letter  caused  me  great,  very  great  joy 
"and  I  read  thy  poem  so  often  that  I  know  it  by  heart.  I  copy  it 
*'and  send  it  to  Tompa.     What  a  good  fellow  he  is!     But  then  see 

"Arany,  Petofi,  Tompa upon  ray  soul!  a  splendid  Triumvirate 

**and  if  our  glory  may  not  be  as  great  as  that  of  the  Roman  Trium- 
"virate,  yet  our  merit,  I  doubt  uot,  is  just  as  great,  if  not  still 
"greater,  than  theirs.  And  our  pay?  A  village  parish,  a  village 
^'notaryship  and  a  Metropolitan  'what  you  may  call  it' — nothing. .  . 
**But  it  matters  not.  I  am  a  man  without  any  pretensions  and  I 
"content  myself  with  it,  and  even  if  I  die  of  hunger,  I  shall  live  to 
"the  day  of  my  death,  and  beyond  that  I  care  not  for  my  fate.     For 

*'the  funeral  expenses  let  somebody  else  care Truly,  a  sorry 

*'profession,  this  Magyar  authorship!  I  could  get  some  kind  of 
^'office  but  I  fret  at  the  thought  of  it,  and  thus  nothing  else  remains 
^'but  'eat,  my  boy,  when  you  have  it!' .  .  .  .Ah,  it  really  pains  me  if  I 
*'think  of  it,  what  a  Bedouin  was  lost  in  me,  but  from  my  inmost 
^'soul  I  believe,  that  in  our  country  too,  the  time  will  come  yet, 
*'when  the  pagans  who  worship  liberty,  and  not  merely  the  Christ- 
■*'ians  devoutly  bowed  before  the  only  true  Lord,  can  succeed  in 
"making  a  living." 

No  mu,n  ever  loved  his  country  more  devoutly  than  Petofi. 
His  popular  poetry  was  with  him  not  a  mere  form  of  versification, 
but  it  was  an  indivisible  part  of  his  whole  being.  He  loved  all 
that  is  pure,  noble,  elevating,  but  his  purest,  noblest  and  highest 
aims  he  found  in  the  grandeur  of  his  nation.  Be  this  grandeur 
visible  in  the  healthy  and  pure  morals  of  his  people,  or  in  the  sin- 
gleness of  their  aims,  the  honesty  of  their  desires,  the  nobility  of 
their  labor,  or  in  the  Nation's  purpose  of  freedom, — his  tuneful  lyre 
was  always  doing  service  for  these  divine,  heavenly  causes.  "Here- 
in— says  Baron  Joseph  Eot^os  of  him — lies  the  great  influence  his 
works  exercised  and  herein  are  to  be  found  the  greatest  merits  of 
his  literary  authority." 

Many  of  the  compositions  of  this  preeminently  Magyar  national 
poet  are,  on  account  of  their  strong  local  coloring,  scarcely  trans- 
latable without  losing  their  inherent  value.  Who  would  presume 
to  transfer  the  poems  of  Robert  Burns  promiscuously  to  a  foreign 
language?  How,  e.  g.,  would  his  'Ode  to  a  haggis'  sound  in  French? 
We  do  not  say  this  for  the  purpose  of  offering  a  lame  excuse  for  the 
poverty  of  our  own  translations.  Before  us  lies  an  exceedingly  se- 
vere, but  a  just  and  manly  comment  by  a  critic  upon  some  German 
Petofi  translations : 


"The  translator  has  a  double  duty  to  perform:  one  ties  him 
"towards  the  original  he  translates  from,  which  he  shall  in  its  ful- 
"lest  and  noblest  sense  truly  revive.  The  views  of  the  poet,  his 
"style,  the  color  of  his  poetry,  the  character  of  his  being — all  this 
"the  foreign  reader  must  find  again  in  the  same.  The  second  duty 
"of  the  translator  ties  him  to  his  own  people :  what  he  creates  is  a 
"literary  product  and  must,  in  language,  style  and  form,  stand  on  a 
"level  with  the  literary  culture  of  his  people  and  his  times.  Not 
"only  the  masters,  but  also  the  tyros  in  the  art  of  translation  are 
"aware  of  these  their  twofold  duties  and  strive  to  do  justice  in  this 
"respect." 

"No  one  is  compelled  to  translate  Hungarian  poetry.  'Who- 
"cannot  sing' — says  Platen  correctly  and  appropriately — *let  him 
"not  touch  the  strings  of  the  lute.'  " 

- Petofi's  young  widow — although  quite  disconsolate 

and  apparently  heartbroken  after  her  husband's  disappearance — soon 
got  married  again  and  died  about  ten  years  ago.  His  only  son 
grew  up  to  be  a  young  man  of  twenty  years,  or  thereabouts,  and  died 
a  few  years  ago  in  one  of  the  public  hospitals  in  Budapest.  The 
poet's  younger  brother — and  only  one — Stephen,  died  in  the  Spring^ 
of  the  year  1880. 

As  long  as  the  Magyar  Puszta  shall  be  inhabited  by  one  of  the 
noble  Magyar  race,  so  long  will  Alexander  Petofi  remain  the  na- 
tion's great  genius  who  will,  through  his  divine  songs,  for  all  time 
exercise  a  most  wholesome  influence  over  the  Magyar  nation's  life 
and  over  the  Magyar  people's  love  for  all  that  is  pure  and  noble^ 
for  freedom  and  independance. 


GEMS 


FROM 


PETOFl  AND  OTHER  HUNGARIAN  POETS. 


TRANSLATED  BY 


yVM.   N.   LOEW. 


ALEXAiNDER  PETOFI 


MY   SONGS. 

DaLAIM. 

Oft  am  I  sunk  in  deepest  thought, 
Although  my  musings  bring  me  naught ; 
My  thoughts  then  o'er  my  country  fly, 
Fly  o'er  the  earth,  rise  to  the  sky. 
The  songs  which  from  my  lips  then  roll 
Are  moon-rays  of  my  dreamy  sorl. 

Instead  of  dreaming,  better  t'were 

If  for  my  future  I  should  care. 

If  I  should  seek  to  care — but  why  ? 

Over  me  watches  God  most  High. 

The  songs  which  from  my  lips  then  roll 

Are  mayflies  of  my  wanton  soul. 

But  if  a  lovely  maid  I  meet. 

My  thoughts  to  inner  depths  retreat ; 

I  gaze  into  the  maiden's  eye 

As  views  a  lake  a  star  on  high. 

The  songs  which  from  my  lips  then  roll 

Are  roses  of  my  lovebound  soul. 

If  she  loves  me,  wine  joy  must  crown. 
If  not,  my  grief  in  wine  I  drown. 
And  where  the  cups  with  wine  abound, 
There  joy  and  roseate  light  are  found. 
The  songs  which  from  my  lips  then  roll 
Are  rainbows  of  my  misty  soul. 

Yet,  while  I  hold  the  glass  in  hand. 
The  yoke  oppresses  many  a  land. 
As  joyous  as  the  glasses  rang. 
So  sadly  do  slaves'  fetters  clang. 
The  songs  which  from  my  lips  then  roll 
Are  clouds  that  overcast  my  soul. 


—    4    — 

Why  do  men  dwell  in  slavery's  night  ? 
Why  burst  they  not  their  chains  in  fight 
Or  do  they  wait,  till  God  some  day 
Shall  let  rust  gnaw  their  chains  away  ? 
The  songs  which  from  my  lips  then  roll, 
Are  lightnings  of  my  stormy  soul. 


THE   THOUGHT   TOEMENTS   ME. 

.   EGY  GONDOLAT  BANT  ENGEMET. 

The  thought  torments  me  sore,  lest  I 

Upon  a  pillowed  couch  should  die, — 

Should  slowly  fade  like  the  fair  flower 

W^hose  heart  the  gnawing  worms  devour ; 

'Or,  like  the  light  in  some  void  room, 

Should  faintly  flicker  into  gloom. 

Xiet  no  such  ending  come  to  me. 

Oh  God !  but  rather  let  me  be 

A  tree,  through  which  the  lightning  shoots, 

Or  which  the  strenuous  storm  uproots ; 

Or  like  the  rock  from  hill  out-torn 

And  thundering  to  the  valley  borne ! 

When  every  nation  wearing  chains 

Shall  rise  and  seek  the  battle  plains. 

With  flushing  face  shall  wave  in  fight 

Their  banners  blazoned  in  the  light : 

"For  liberty !" 

Their  cry  shall  be — 

'Their  cry  from  east  to  west. 

Till  tyrants  be  depressed. 

There  shall  I  gladly  yield 

My  life  upon  the  field. 

There  shall  my  heart's  last  blood  flow  out. 

And  I  my  latest  cry  shall  shout. 

May  it  be  drowned  in  clash  of  steel 

In  trumpets'  and  in  cannons'  peal ; 

And  o'er  my  corse 

Let  tread  the  horse. 


—     5    — 

Which  gallops  home  from  victory's  gain 
And  leaves  me  trodden  mid  the  slain. 
My  scattered  bones  shall  be  interred 
When  all  the  dead  are  sepulchred — 
When,  amid  slow  funereal  strains, 
Banners  shall  wave  o'er  the  remains 
Of  heroes  who  have  died  for  thee, 
O  world- delivering  Liberty  ! 


IN  MY  NATIVE  LAND.  • 

SZULOFOIiDEMEN. 

This  landscape  fills  my  heart  with  thrilling  joy ; 
Here  years  ago  I  dwelt,  a  happy  boy ; 
Here  was  I  born,  in  this  fair  village-place ; 
I  yet  recall  my  dear  old  nurse's  face ; 
Her  simple  cradle  song  sounds  ever  near. 
And  "Mayfly,  yellow  Mayfly"  still  I  hear.^ 

As  a  mere  child  I  went  abroad  to  roam. 
Now,  a  grown  man,  again  I  seek  my  home. 
Ah !  twenty  years  since  then  have  passed  away^ 
'Mid  joy  and  sorrow,  yea,  'mid  toil  and  play. 
These  twenty  years  it  echoed  in  my  ear: 
And  "Mayfly,  yellow  Mayfly"  still  I  hear. 

My  early  playmates  all,  where  now  are  ye? 

If  one  of  you  't  were  mine  again  to  see. 

Most  lovingly  I'd  clasp  him  to  my  breast. 

The  thought  that  I  grow  old  would  be  suppressed. 

Yet  this  is  now  my  five-and-twentieth  year, 

And  "Mayfly,  yellow  Mayfly"  still  I  hear. 

As  fleet- winged  birds  flit  round  from  bough  to  bough, 
So  do  my  restless  thoughts  flit  backward  now ; 
As  sweets  are  gathered  by  the  honey-bees. 
So  do  my  musings  call  glad  memories. 
My  blithesome  spirit  roameth  far  and  near, 
And  "Mayfly,  yellow  Mayfly"  still  I  hear. 


—     6     — 

Again  I  am  a  child,  a  happy  child, 

Eoaming  through  pastures  green  and  forests  wild. 

I  mount  my  hobby-horse,  and  in  delight 

I  ride  about  the  room,  with  heart  so  light. 

Forgotten  is  all  grief,  all  care,  all  fear. 

And  "Mayfly,  yellow  Mayfly"  still  I  hear. 

The  sun  has  almost  run  his  daily  course. 
Tired  are  the  rider  and  his  hobby-horse. 
Gently  the  dear  old  nurse  lulls  me  to  sleep, 
Kissing  me  lovingly  ;  why  does  she  weep  ? 
Why  are  my  eyes  filled  with  the  burning  tear  ? 
And  "Mayfly,  yellow  Mayfly"  still  I  hear. 


NATIONAL   SONG. 

NEMZETI  DAL. 

EiSE,  Magyar !  is  the  country's  call : 
The  time  has  come,  say  one  and  all : 
Shall  we  be  slaves,  shall  we  be  free  ? 
This  is  the  question,  now  agree ! 
For  by  the  Magyar's  God  above 

We  truly  swear, 
We  truly  swear  the  tyrant's  yoke 

No  more  to  bear ! 

Alas !  till  now  we  were  but  slaves ; 
Our  fathers  resting  in  their  graves 
Sleep  not  in  freedom's  soil.   In  vain 
They  fought  and  died  free  homes  to  gain. 
But  by  the  Magyar's  God  above 

We  truly  swear. 
We  truly  swear  the  tyrant's  yoke 

No  more  to  bear ! 

A  miserable  wretch  is  he 
Who  fears  to  die  my  land  for  thee ! 
His  worthless  life  who  thinks  to  be 
More  worth  than  thou,  sweet  liberty ! 


Now  by  the  Magyar's  God  above 

We  truly  swear, 
We  truly  swear  the  tyrant's  yoke 

No  more  to  bear ! 

The  sword  is  brighter  than  the  chain, 
Men  cannot  nobler  gems  attain ; 
And  yet  the  chain  we  wore,  O  shame ! 
Unsheathe  the  sword  of  ancient  fame ! 
For  by  the  Magyar's  God  above 

We  truly  swear. 
We  truly  swear  the  tyrant's  yoke 

No  more  to  bear  ! 

The  Magyar's  name  will  soon  once  more 
Be  honored  as  it  was  before  ! 
The  shame  and  dust  of  ages  past 
Our  valor  shall  wipe  out  at  last. 
For  by  the  Magyar's  God  above 

Wc!  truly  swear. 
We  truly  swear  the  tyrant's  yoke 

No  more  to  bear ! 

And  where  our  graves  in  verdure  rise 
Our  children's  children  to  the  skies 
Shall  speak  the  grateful  joy  they  feel. 
And  bless  our  names  the  while  they  kneel. 
For  by  the  Magyar's  God  above 

We  truly  swear. 
We  truly  swear  the  tyrant's  yoke 

No  more  to  bear ! 


WAE-SONG. 

CSATADAL. 

The  trumpets  blare,  drums  beat  a  call ; 
Our  boys  go  forth  to  fight  or  fall : 
Forward ! 

The  bullets  whistle,  sabres  clash. 
This  fills  the  Magyar  with  firm  dash : 
Forward ! 


8 


May  freedom's  flag  wave  on  the  height^ 

That  all  the  world  behold  the  sight : 

Forward ! 

Unfurl  the  flag !  the  world  should  see 

The  proud  inscription,  "Liberty !" 

Forward! 

The  world  the  Magyar's  valor  knows,, 
He  bravely  faces  all  his  foes  : 
Forward ! 

A  virtue  God  the  Magyar  gave ; 
He  made  his  nature  truly  brave  : 
Forward ! 

Upon  a  gory  ground  I  tread, 

A  comrade's  blood  has  made  it  red  : 

Forward ! 

A  hero  he  !  can  I  be  less  ? 

Boldly  I  onward  wish  to  press : 

Forward ! 

If,  even  as  cripples  we  be  shot. 

If  even  to  die  here  be  our  lot : 

Forward ! 

For  thee  our  lives  we  freely  give. 

Dear  Fatherland,  then  thou  must  live !' 

Forward  ! 


FAREWELL. 

BltcSU. 

Toward  the  end  of  the  year  1848. 

The  sun  had  hardly  dawned,  when,  lo!  it  set. 
I  had  but  come,  and  now  I  must  depart. 
Scarce  had  I  time  to  greet  and  kiss  thee,  dear^ 
When  duty  calls  and  we  again  must  part. 
God's  blessing  on  you,  pretty  little  wife, 
Goodbye,  my  heart,  my  love,  my  soul,  my  life!* 


—    9    — 

I  carry  now  the  sword  and  not  the  lute, 
The  minstrel  as  a  soldier  now  must  fight. 
A  golden  star  hath  led  me  heretofore, 
The  blood-red  sky  is  now  my  guiding  light. 
God's  blessing  on  you,  pretty  little  wife. 
Goodbye,  my  heart,  my  love,  my  soul,  my  lifef! 

'Tis  not  ambition  which  prompts  me  to  leave; 
No  laurels  rest  where  thou  the  roses  red 
Of  happiness  hast  placed  upon  my  brow, 
Which  I  shall  never  take  from  off  my  head. 
God's  blessing  on  you,  pretty  little  wife 
Goodbye,  my  heart,  my  love,  my  soul,  my  life!' 

'Tis  not  ambition  which  prompts  me  to  leave. 
Thou  know'st  ambition  died  within  my  soul. 
'Tis  for  my  fatherland  I  sacrifice 
My  life  upon  the  field  where  cannons  roll. 
God's  blessing  on  you,  pretty  little  wife 
Goodbye,  my  heart,  my  love,  my  soul,  my  lifet 

If  none  my  dearest  country  should  defend. 
Alone  I  would  defend  her  with  all  might; 
Now,  when  all  rise  to  seek  the  battle  plains. 
Shall  I  remain  at  home  afraid  to  fight  ? 
God's  blessing  on  you,  pretty  little  wife 
Goodbye,  my  heart,  my  love,  my  soul,  my  lifet* 

I  ask  thee  not  to  think  of  me  when  gone. 
The  while  I  fight  for  fatherland  and  thee. 
My  love  to  thee  is  pure,  and  well  I  know 
One  thought  alone  thou  hast,  and  that  for  me. 
God's  blessing  on  you,  pretty  little  wife, 
Goodbye,  my  heart,  my  love,  my  soul,  my  life! 

Perchance  a  crippled  wreck  I  shall  come  home, 
But  thou,  my  darling  wife,  wilt  love  me  still ; 
For,  by  our  God,  when  I  return,  the  same 
Pure  love,  as  now,  my  heart  shall  ever  thrill. 
God's  blessing  on  you,  pretty  little  wife. 
Goodbye,  my  heart,  my  love,  my  soul,  my  life!! 


10 


AT    THE   END   OF   THE   YEAR. 

AZ   EV  VEGEN. 

ThoiT  goest,  thy  course  is  run,  old  year ! 
Well  go !  But  stay,  pass  not  alone, 
Dark  is  the  next  world,  that  one  might 
Be  led  astray ;  my  song  shall  light 
The  road  and  thus  thy  way  make  known. 

Again  I  grasp  my  good  old  lute. 
Once  more  I  touch  its  tuneful  strings ; 
It  has  been  mute,  but  I  will  try 
If  still  it  yields  sweet  melody. 
If  still  it  passionately  sings  ? 

If  e'er  thou  sangest  sweet,  let  now 
The  mellowest  lay  thy  strings  outpour ; 
A  song  as  fair  as  ever  came 
From  thee,  and  worthy  of  thy  fame 
Shall  solemnize  this  parting  hour. 

Who  knows,  who  knows  ?  this  may  the  last, 

The  last  song  be  that  I  shall  hear. 

Laying  aside  the  lute  today, 

Wake  it  again  I  never  may. 

To  die  may  be  my  fate  this  year. 

The  army  of  the  God  of  wars 

I  joined,  and  now  go  forth  to  fight. 

A  next  year  I  may  never  see. 

But  if  I  sing,  my  poetry 

With  blood  and  sword-blade  I  shall  write. 

Sing,  I  beseech  of  thee,  oh,  sing 
In  accents  silver-clear  my  lyre  ! 
Let  mild  or  thunderous  be  thy  voice, 
Let  it  be  sad  or  else  rejoice ; 
But  sing  with  passion  and  with  fire. 

A  tempest  thou  shalt  be,  which  will 
O'er  hill  and  vale  with  fury  sweep ; 
A  zephyr  be,  which  smilingly 
Lulls  with  its  mellow  lullaby 
The  verdant  meadows  into  sleep. 


—   11 

Or  yet  a  mirror  be,  wherein 
My  youth,  my  love,  shall  meet  my  eye. 
My  youth  which  dies,  but  never  wanes, 
My  love  which  ever  green  remains. 
Eternal  as  the  vault  on  High ! 

O !  sing,  sweet  lute,  thy  sweetest  tunes, 
Give  all  the  song  that  in  thee  is ! 
'The  setting  sun  sheds  with  delight 
His  rays  from  yonder  flaming  height 
And  spends  the  remnant  that  is  his. 

And  if  thy  swan-song  it  may  be, 
Peal  it  forth  mighty  and  sublime ; 
Not  to  be  lost  of  men  with  ease, 
But  let  it  over  centuries        • 
Come  '^choing  back  from  rocks  of  time. 


o- 


I   AM  A  MAGYAE. 

MAGYAR  VAGYOK. 

A  Magyar  I !  The  splendor  of  my  land 
Naught  can  surpass.     She  is  the  loveliest 
Upon  the  globe,  and  countless  as  the  sand 
The  beauties  are  she  bears  upon  her  breast. 
In  mountains  she  is  rich  and  from  their  height 
One  casts  his  glance  beyond  the  distant  sea ; 
Her  fertile  plains  are  wide,  you  think  they  might 
Extend  to  where  the  world's  end  seems  to  be. 

A  Magyar  I !  By  nature  I  am  sad 

As  are  the  first  tunes  of  my  nation's  lay. 

And,  though  I  often  smile  when  I  am  glad, 

I  ne'er  laugh,  however  I  be  gay. 

But  when  the  utmost  joy  doth  fill  my  breast. 

In  freely  flowing  tears  breaks  out  my  glee ; 

Yet  joyous  seems  my  face  when  most  depressed, 

For  none  I  ever  want  to  pity  me. 


—     12     — 

A  Magyar  I !  With  pride  I  cast  my  eye 
Over  the  sea  of  history  past  and  see 
Vast,  mighty  rocks  that  almost  reach  the  sky ; 
They  are  my  nation's  deeds  of  bravery. 
We,  too,  were  acting  once  on  Europe's'stage, 
And  ours  was  not  an  empty,  easy  role ! 
When,  at  the  play,  our  sword  we  drew  in  rage 
All  feared  us,  as  the  child  the  thunder's  roll. 

A  Magyar  I !  But  what  is  that  to-day  ? 

Ghost  of  a  glorious  past  that  restless  stirs 

At  dark,  but  which  the  midnight  spells  must  lay 

In  dreamless  sleep  down  in  his  sepulchres. 

How  mute  we  are !  Our  neighbor  nearest  by 

Scarce  gains  a  sign  that  we  are  yet  alive ; 

One  brother  will  the  other  vilify. 

Now  in  our  land  but  wrong  and  falsehood  thrive. 

A  Magyar  I !  But  o !  how  I  deplore 

To  be  a  Magyar  now !  It  is  a  shame 

That  while  the  sun  in  brightness  shines  all  o'er 

No  gleam  of  dawn  to  us  as  yet  there  came ; 

Still  all  the  wealth  on  earth  could  not  suffice 

My  love  of  thee,  dear  spot,  e'er  to  eiFace 

Dear  native  land,  I  still  must  idolize 

And  love  thee  still,  in  spite  of  thy  disgrace! 


IF  BOEN  A  MAN,  THEN  BE  A  MAN. 

HA  FERFI  VAGY,  L^GY  FERFI. 

If  born  a  man,  then  be  a  man, 
And  not  a  wretched  grub 
That  pusillanimously  bears 
Fate's  every  knock  and  rub! 
Fate  is  a  cur  that  only  barks 
But  fears  a  manly  blow; 
A  man  must  ever  ready  be, 
Bravely  to  meet  his  foe! 


—    13    — 

If  born  a  man,  then  be  a  man, 
And  boast  not  of  the  fact; 
More  clear-tongued  then  Demosthenes 
Are  valiant  deed  and  act. 
Build  up,  destroy,  but  silent  be 
When  done;  make  no  display; 
Just  as  the  storm  that  does  is  work 
Lulls  and  subsides  away. 

If  born  a  man,  then  be  a  man. 
Hold  honor,  faith,  thine  own; 
Express  them  even  if  thy  blood 
Should  for  thy  creed  atone. 
Forfeit  thy  life  a  hundred  times 
Ere  thou  thy  word  dost  break; 
Let  all  be  lost,  'tis  not  too  much 
To  pay  for  honor's  sake. 

If  born  a  man,  then  be  a  man. 
And  bargain  not  away 
Thy  independence  even  for  all 
The  great  world's  rich  array. 
Despise  the  knave,  who  sells  himself, 
The  man  who  has  his  price! 
"A  beggar's  staff  and  liberty" 
Be  ever  thy  device! 

If  born  a  man,  then  be  a  man. 
Strong,  brave  and  true  as  steel! 
Then  trust  that  neither  man  nor  fate 
Can  crush  thee'neath  their  heel. 
Be  an  oak,  which  the  hurricane 
May  shake  and  break  and  rend; 
But  ne'er  possess  the  power  its  frame, 
Or  giant  force  to  bend! 


—     14     — 
EAGGED  HEROES. 

RONGYOS  VITEZEK. 

I  also  could  with  rhythm  and  rhyme 
My  poems  clothe  and  deck  them  out, 
Just  as  a  dandy  it  behooves 
To  dress  for  some  gay  ball  or  rout. 

But  then,  these  cherished  thoughts  of  mine 
Are  not  like  fashion's  idle  toys, 
Who  find,  beperfumed  and  begloved, 
In  fancy  garb  their  chiefest  joys. 

The  clash  of  swords,  the  cannons'  roll 
Have  died  in  rust:  a  war  begun 
Is  now  without  a  musket  waged, 
But  with  ideas  shall  be  won. 

I,  too,  the  gallant  ranks  have  joined, 
And  with  my  age  am  sworn  to  fight. 
Have  in  command  a  stalwart  troop. 
Each  song  of  mine  a  valiant  knight. 

My  men,  'tis  true,  are  clad  in  rags. 
But  each  of  them  is  brave  and  bold. 
We  guage  the  soldier  not  by  dress 
But  by  his  deeds  of  valor  told. 

I  never  question  if  my  songs. 

Will  live  beyond  me;  'tis  but  naught 

To  me;  if  they  are  doomed  to  die, 

They  fall  at  least  where  they  have  fought. . 

Even  then  the  book  shall  hallowed  be 
Wherein  my  thoughts  lie  buried  deep  ; 
For  'tis  the  heroes'  burial-place 
Who  for  the  sake  of  freedom  sleep. 


—    IS- 
DN A  KAILROAD. 

VASUTON. 

I  am  in  raptures,  happy,  gay; 

Glorious  scenes  now  greet  this  eye. 

Only  the  birds  ere  now  could  fly. 
But  men  can  also  fly  to  day. 

Fleet- winged  thought  or  venturous  mind, 
We'll  in  the  race  with  you  compete! 
Spur  on  your  horse!    A  splendid  heat! 

We  shall,  withal,  leave  you  behind. 

Hills  and  vales,  seas,  men  and  trees. 
What  -^Ise  I  pass  God  only  knows; 
My  wonder,  my  amazement  grows, 

Viewing  these  misty  sceneries. 

The  suii  runs  with  us,  as  in  dread 

Of  quick  pursuit — a  madman's  thought — 
By  devils,  who,  if  him  they  caught 

Into  small  fragments  then  would  shred. 

He  ran  and  ran  and  onward  fled: 
But  all  in  vain!  he  had  to  stop. 
Tired  on  a  western  mountain-top. 

Blushing  with  shame,  his  face  is  red. 

But  in  our  ride  we  still  proceed. 
We  weary  not,  feel  no  fatigue. 
And  rolling  up  league  after  league 

May  yet  to  reach  new  worlds  succeed. 

A  thousand  railroads  men  shall  build 

Throughout  the  earth,  till  endless  chains 
Of  iron  lines,  like  human  veins. 

The  world  with  healthy  life  have  filled. 

The  railroads  are  the  veins  of  earth ; 
Culture  and  progress  prosper  where 
They  cause  pulsations  in  the  air ; 

To  nations'  greatness  they  give  birth. 


—     16     — 

Build  railroads,  more  than  heretofore  ; 

You  ask  whence  you  shall  iron  take  ? 

The  chains  and  yokes  of  bondage  break; 
Let  human  slavery  be  no  more! 


AT    HOME. 

HAZAMBAN. 


"Beautiful  home,  upon  thy  wide-spread  plain 
Expands  a  waving  field  of  golden  grain. 
Whereon  the  mirage  plays,  O  country  dear, 
Knowest  thou  still,  thy  son,  now  pining  here  ? 

'Tis  long  ago  since  welcome  rest  I  found 
Beneath  the  poplar  trees  I  yet  see  round, 
While,  through  the  autumn-sky  high  overhead, 
Migrating  cranes  in  Y  shape  southward  sped. 

When  on  the  threshold  of  our  house,  with  tears, 
Heartsore  I  bade  goodbye  to  all  my  dears. 
And  when,  dear  mother's  last  and  parting  sigh 
On  gentle  zephyrs'wings  away  did  fly; 

Ah,  many  a  line  of  years,  since  then  begun. 
Their  course  completed,  to  their  death  have  run. 
While,  on  revolving  wheels  of  fate,  I  passed 
Through  various  scenes  in  which  my  lot  was  cast. 

The  great  world  is  the  school  of  life,  I  trow, 
Wherethrough  I  plodded  with  perspiring  brow; 
Because  my  road  was  passing  hard  and  rough. 
And,  from  the  start,  I  traversed  wastes  enough. 

I  know — and  none  knows  better  I  well  think — 
To  whom  experience  held  her  hemlock  drink, 
That  rather  I  would  drain  the  cup  of  death 
Than  the  black  chalice  which  she  proffereth. 

But  now  despair  and  grief  and  bitter  pain. 
Which  swelled  my  heart  rending  it  nigh  in  twain 
Are  gone ;  their  memory  e'en  is  washed  away 
By  holy  tears  of  joy  I  shed  to-day. 


—     17    — 

For  here,  where  once  I  lay  on  mother's  breast^ 
Drank  in  her  honeyed  love, — to  me  the  best — 
The  sun  shines  smilingly  from  heaven's  dome 
Again  on  thy  true  son,  O  fair,  loved  home! 


FEOM   AFAE. 

TAVOLBOL. 

A  house  stands  by  the  Danube  far  away, 
To  me  so  dear,  I  think  of  it  all  day; 
The  fond  remembrance  of  that  spot  so  dear, 
Will  ever  make  my  heart  well  with  the  tear. 

Had  I  but  from  that  home  not  gone,  yet  man^ 
Is  always  mo\ed  by  some  ambitious  plan. 
And  falcon-wings  grew  to  my  heart's  desire ; 
I  left  my  home,  my  mother  dear  and  sire. 

How  great  my  mother's  grief  I  cannot  tell; 
When  bidding  me  'mid  sobs  and  sighs  farewell 
The  pearly  dew  that  showered  from  her  eyes- 
To  quench  her  burning  pains  did  not  suffice.. 

Still  do  I  feel  her  trembling  arms'  embrace, 
Still  do  I  see  her  haggard,  careworn  face. 
Oh,  had  I  then  this  world  at  all  foreseen. 
Her  dear  entreaties  vain  had  never  been. 

Seen  in  the  rays  of  hope's  bright  morning-star 
Our  future  days  enchanted  gardens  are : 
Only  to  our  delusion  do  we  wake 
When  in  the  devious  labyrinth  of  mistake. 

But  why  relate  how  hope's  enticing  ray, 
Though  cheering  me,  misled  me  on  my  way; 
How,  wandering  o'er  the  bleak  world's  barren  sod. 
My  faltering  feet  on  myriad  thorn-spikes  trod. 

Some  friends  have  started  toward  my  home  lo  go ; 
What,  by  their  mouth,  shall  I  let  mother  know  ? 
Call  on  her,  countrymen,  if  you  come  near 
The  house  wherein  reside  my  parents  dear. 


—    18    — 

Pray,  tell  my  darling  mother  not  to  fret, 
Say  that  her  son  is  now  fair  fortune's  pet. 
Ah !  should  the  loving  soul  the  plain  truth  hear, 
Her  tender  heart,  alas,  would  break  I  fear! 


I  DKEAM  OF  GOKY  DAYS. 

VERES  NAPOKROL  aLMODaM. 

I  dream  of  dread  and  gory  days, 
"Which  come,  this  world  to  chaos  casting. 
While  o'er  its  ruined  works  and  ways. 
The  new  world  rises  everlasting. 

Could  I  but  hear,  could  I  but  hear 
The  trumpet's  blare,  to  carnage  calling ! 
I  scarce  can  wait  till  on  my  ear 
The  summons  sounds,  to  some  appalling. 

Then  to  the  saddle  quick  I  spring, 
Hy  mettled  steed  with  joy  bestriding. 
And  haste  to  join  the  noble  ring 
Of  heroes,  who  to  fight  are  riding. 

And  should  a  spear- thrust  pierce  my  breast. 
There  will  be  one — a  fair  thought  this  is — 
By  whom  my  wound  will  then  be  dressed, 
My  pain  assuaged  by  balmy  kisses. 

If  taken  captive  I  should  be. 

This  one,  my  dungeon's  gloom  aborning, 

Will  surely  come  to  visit  me 

In  radiance  like  the  star  of  morning. 

And  should  I  die,  and  should  I  die 
On  scafi'old,  or  mid  cannons'rattle. 
This  one  with  tears  will  then  be  nigh 
To  wash  away  the  blood  of  battle. 


—     19    — 
I  DEEAMED   OF   WAES. 

HABORUROL    ALMODAM. 

I  dreamed  of  wars  last  night,  the  Magyar 
Called  to  battle,  as  in  times  of  old ; 
The  heralds  made  loud  proclamation 
And  the  bloody  sabre  did  uphold. 

A  sacred  fire  forthwith  was  kindled 
At  the  gory  emblem  in  true  hearts ; 
The  wreath  of  freedom  is  the  guerdon, 
And  the  hireling's  pay  no  zest  imparts. 

We  twain  that  day  were  wed  together — 
Thou,  my  dear  little  one,  and  I: 
My  nuptial  joys  I  did  surrender. 
For  the  fatherland  I  went  to  die. 

Say,  is  not  this  a  fate  most  direful. 
On  the  marriage-night,  love,  to  leave  you ' 
Still,  if  my  country  called  to  struggle. 
As  in  dreams  I  did,  so  would  I  do. 

o 


IF     GOD. 

HA  AZ  ISTEN. 

If  God  Almighty  thus  would  speak  to  me : 
"My  son,  I  grant  permisson  unto  thee 
To  have  thy  death  as  thou  thyself  shalt  say;" 
Thus  unto  my  Creator  I  would  pray; 

"Let  it  be  Autumn,  when  the  zephyrs  sway 
The  sere  leaves  wherewith  mellow  sunbeams  play; 
And  let  me  hear  once  more  the  sad,  sweet  song 
Of  errant  birds,  that  will  be  missed  ere  long. 

And  unperceived,  as  winter's  chilling  breath 
Wafting  o'er  autumn,  bearing  subtle  death. 
Then  let  death  come  to  me;  he  '11  welcome  be 
If  I  but  notice  him  when  close  to  me. 


—     20     — 

Like  to  the  birds,  again  I  will  outpour 

A  mellower  tune  than  e'er  I  sang  before, 

A  song  which  moves  the  heart,  makes  dim  the  eyes 

And  mounts  up  swelling  to  the  very  skies. 

And  as  my  swan-song  draweth  to  its  end 
My  sweetheart  fair  and  true,  may  o'er  me  bend; 
Thus  would  I  die,  caressing  her  fair  face. 
Kissing  the  one  on  earth  who  holds  most  grace. 

But  if  the  Lord  this  boon  should  disallow. 
With  spring  of  war  let  him  the  land  endow; 
When  the  rose-blooms  that  color  earth  again 
Are  blood-red  roses  in  the  breast  of  men. 

May  nightingales  of  wars — the  trumpets — thrill 
Men's  souls  and  with  heroic  passion  fill; 
I  may  be  there,  and  where  the  bullets  shower 
O,  let  my  heart  put  forth  a  deathly  flower. 

Falling  beneath  the  horse's  iron  heel, 
Here  also  may  a  kiss  my  pale  lips  seal; 
Thus  would  I  die  while  I  thy  kiss  obtain, 
Liberty,  who  'mid  heavenly  hosts  dost  reign! 


MY   WIFE  AND   MY   SWOED. 

FELESEGEM    ES    KARDOM. 

Upon  the  roof  a  dove, 

A  star  within  the  sky,     - 
Upon  my  knees  my  love, 

For  whom  I  live  and  die; 
In  raptures  I  embrace 

And  swing  her  on  my  knees, 
Just  as  the  dewdrop  sways 

Upon  the  leaf  of  trees. 

But  why,  you'll  surely  ask. 
Kiss  not  hex  pretty  face? 

It  is  an  easy  task 

To  kiss  while  we  embrace! 


—    21     — 

Many  a  burning  kiss  . 

I  press  upon  her  lip, 
For  such  a  heavenly  bliss 

I  cannot  now  let  slip. 

And  thus  we  pass  our  day, 

I  and  my  pretty, wife. 
Beyond  all;  rare  gem's  ray 

Is  our  gay  wedded  life. 
A  friend,  my  sword,  it  seems, 

Does  not  like  this  at  all. 
He  looks  with  angry  gleams 

Upon  me  from  the  wall. 

Don't  look  on  me^  good  sword. 

With  eyes  so  cross  and  cold, 
There  should  be  no  discord 

Between  us,  friends  of  old. 
To  women  leave  such,  things. 

As  green-eyed  jealousy: 
To  men  but  shame  it  brings. 

And  you  a  man  rhust  be! 

But  then,  if  you  would  pause 

To  think  who  is  my  love, 
"You'd  see  you  have  no  cause 

At  all  me  to  reprove. 
She  is  the  sweetest  maid. 

She  is  so  good  and  true; 
Like  her  God  only  made, 

I  know,  but  very  few. 

If  thee,  good  sword,  again 

Shall  need  our  native  land. 
To  seek  the  battle-plain 

Will  be  my  wife's  command. 
She  will  insist  that  I 

Go  forth,  my  sword,  with  thee. 
To  fight,  if  need  to  die. 

For  precious  liberty! 


—    22    — 
AT   THE   END   OF    SEPTEMBEE. 

SZEPTEMBER   VEGEN. 

The  garden  flowers  still  blossom  in  the  vale, 
Before  our  house  the  poplars  still  are  green; 
But  soon  the  mighty  winter  will  prevail; 
Snow  is  already  in  the  mountains  seen. 
The  summer  sun's  benign  and  warming  ray 
Still  moves  my  youthful  heart,  now  in  its  spring; 
But  lo!  my  hair  shows  signs  of  turning  gray, 
The  wintry  days  thereto  their  color  bring. 

This  life  is  short;  too  early  fades  the  rose; 

To  sit  here  on  my  knee,  my  darling,  come! 

Wilt  thou,  who  now  dost  on  my  breast  repose. 

Not  kneel,  perhaps,  to  morrow  o'er  my  tomb? 

O,  tell  me,  if  before  thee  I  should  die, 

Wilt  thou  with  broken  heart  weep  o'er  my  bier? 

Or  will  some  youth  efface  my  memory 

And  with  his  love  dry  up  thy  mournful  tear? 

If  thou  dost  lay  aside  the  widow's  vail. 

Pray  hang  it  o'er  my  tomb.    At  midnight  I 

Shall  rise,  and,  coming  forth  from  death's  dark  vale, 

Take  it  with  me  to  where  forgot  I  lie. 

And  wipe  with  it  my  ceaseless  flowing  tears. 

Flowing  for  thee,  who  hast  forgotten  me; 

And  bind  my  bleeding  heart  which  ever  bears 

Even  then  and  there,  the  truest  love  for  thee. 


WHO   WOULD   BELIEVE. 

KI.GONDOLNA., 

Who  would  believe  that  on  this  plain 
A  few  weeks  since  two  armies  stood. 
Engaged  in  fierce,  destructive  fight. 
Drenching  the  country  with  their  blood? 

A  direful  day  it  was  throughout. 
Fighting  foe  here,  charging  foe  there. 
Death  in  the  van,  death  in  the  rear: 
Sabres  were  flashing  in  the  air. 


—    23    — 

Then,  like  a  troubled,  careworn  brow. 
The  sky  was  cloudy,  dark  and  wild. 
Now  it  looks  pleasant,  like  the  smile 
Upon  the  bright  face  of  a  child. 

The  earth  was  like  a  hoary  head; 
Covered  with  snow  was  all  the  scene; 
Now  like  the  hopes  of  fiery  youth 
The  earth  is  dressed  in  brightest  green. 

Then  bullets  whistled  through  the  air, 
We  heard  the  mighty  cannon's  roll; 
Above  us  now  the  nightingale 
Pours  out  in  song  her  lovebound  soul. 

Wherever  then  we  cast  our  eyes 
We  only  saw  death's  ghastly  show; 
But  now  the  sweetest-scented  flowers 
In  bounteous  efflorescence  grow. 

Who  would  believe  that  on  this  plain 
A  few  weeks  since  two  armies  stood. 
Engaged  in  fierce,  destructive  fight. 
Drenching  the  country  with  their  blood? 


VOICES   FKOM   EGEE.2 

EGRI  HANG  OK. 

Snow  on  the  earth,  clouds  in  the  sky ! 

Who  cares?  Let  it  be  so. 
None  need  to  marvel,  for  this  is 

The  winter's  daily  show. 
To  tell  the  truth,  I  could  not  tell 

When  winter  came. 
Did  not  a  look  into  the  street 

The  fact  proclaim. 

I  sit  here  in  this  cheerful  room. 
With  faithful  friends  around. 

Who  fill  my  bowl  with  "egri"  wine 
Such  as  but  here  is  found. 


—        24:        — 

The  friends  are  true,  the  wines  are  good 

Who  would  have  more? 
I  now  enjoy  such  happy  days 

As  ne'er  before. 

If  my  contentment  had  but  seeds 

I'd  sow  them  o'er  the  snow; 
A  rosy  bower  then  in  bloom 

Would  in  the  winter  grow. 
And  if  to  heaven,  I  then  might  cast 

My  joyous  heart. 
To  all  the  world  it,  like  the  sun, 

Warmth  would  impart. 

Prom  here  the  mountain  I  can  see, 

Where  Dobo  once  his  name 
Inscribed  with  sword  and  Turkish  blood 

Upon  the  page  of  fame. 
Ah!  until  such  a  man  as  he 

Again  we  see. 
Much  water  will  the  Danube  bear 

Into  the  sea. 

Ah!  withered  is  long,  long  ago 

The  Magyar's  blooming  spring, 
And  apathy  inglorious 

Doth  to  the  nation  cling. 
Will  ever  spring  again  return 

Into  our  land? 
And  will  once  more  our  plains  and  fields 

In  growth  expand? 

Let  us  drop  this,  but  seldom  I 

Enjoy  a  feast  thus  rare. 
So  let  us  not  our  pleasure  mar 

By  memories  fraught  with  care: 
And,  after  all,  do  sighs  abate 

Sorrow  and  grief? 
The  minstrel  'tis  alone  who  finds 

In  song  relief. 


J 


—    25    — 

Let  us  our  country's  cares  not  heed 

For  this  one  day  alone, 
And  each  sad  thought  of  her  let  us 

Now,  while  we  drink,  postpone, 
nil  up  once  more!  Another  glass 

Of  glowing  wine; 
And  still  one  more  to  follow  that 

None  should  decline. 

Well,  well!  What  do  I  notice  now? 

A  cycle  means  each  glass; 
My  mind  now  in  the  future  roams, 

While  I  the  present  pass. 
And  in  this  future  I  once  more 

Again  rejoice. 
And  hear  throughout  my  fatherland 

Joy's  happy  voice! 


STEEAMLET   AND    STEEAM. 

FORRAS  ES  FOLYAM. 

The  streamlet's  waves  roll  on  in  gleeful  ways, 
Their  merry  splash  is  as  her  silvery  voice. 
In  such  a  tuneful  current  did  rejoice, 

'The  mellow  accents  of  my  youthful  days. 

Mj  soul  was  then  a  streamlet  pure  and  clear, 
A  mirror  of  the  laughing  sky  above. 
Sun,  moon  and  star  in  this  sky  was  my  love, 

The  lively  fish,  my  joyous  heart,  leaped  here. 

The  streamlet  has  become  a  swollen  stream, 
Its  whispers  silver-clear  are  heard  no  more. 
And  o'er  the  storm  is  heard  its  mighty  roar; 

"Unseen  in  it  is  now  the  heaven's  bright  gleam. 

IFair  sun,  look  not  into  the  stream  just  now. 
Thou  wilt  not  see  in  it  thy  shining  face; 
The  struggles  of  the  storm  the  same  displace. 

Upheave  its  waters  from  the  depths  below. 


—     26     — 

What  do  the  stains  upon  the  waters  mean, 
The  bloody  stain,  shown  by  the  angry  sea? 
The  wild  world  cast  its  anchor  into  thee, 

Thy  blood,  poor  fish — my  heart,  here  now  is  seen^ 


THE   IMPKISONED  LION. 

A  RAB   OROSZLAN. 

The  boundless  desert  is  his  home  no  more, 
Within  an  iron  cage  he  now  must  roar. 

He,  so  debased,  the  desert's  royal  king. 
To  stand  thus  fettered  with  an  iron  ring! 

To  trifle  with  his  sorrow  let  us  cease, 
'Tis  desecration  to  disturb  his  peace. 

If  of  his  liberty  he  is  bereft, 

Let  the  dear  memory  of  it  still  be  left. 

If  to  the  tree  his  near  approach  be  stayed. 
Let  him  at  least  enjoy  a  little  shade. 

See  in  his  mien  what  majesty  is  found; 

With  how  much  grandeur  do  his  looks  abound  T 

Although  from  him  his  liberty  they  took, 
They  could  not  take  his  proud,  heroic  look. 

Even  as  the  pyramid  he  seemeth  grand. 

Which  towered  above  him  in  his  own  loved  land. 

His  memory  fondly  leads  him  back  again; 
Once  more  he  is  upon  his  native  plain. 

That  vast  expanse  of  wilderness  whereo'er 
The  wild  simoom  hath  raced  with  him  of  yore.. 

O,  glorious  land,  O  happy  days  and  sweet! 
But  hush!  he  hears  his  prison-keeper's  feet. 

And,  lo!  the  world  of  fantasy  hath  fled. 
Because  the  keeper  smote  him  on  the  head. 


—     27     —  - 

A  stick— and  such  a  boy  commands  him  now! 
Oh,  heavenly  powers!  thus  he  hath  to  bow. 

Hath  he  become  so  pitiful  and  poor 
This  deepest  degradation  to  endure  1 

Behold  the  stupid  herd,  the  gaping  crowd 
At  his  humiliation  laugh  aloud. 

How  dare  they  breathe,  for  should  he  break  his  chain, 
No  soul  of  them  for  hell-fire  would  remain. 


A   HOLY    GKAYE. 

SZENT  SIR. 

Far,  very  far  away, 
Whence,  in  the  gentle  spring, 
To  us  the  swallows  come. 
Far,  very  far  away. 
Where,  in  our  wintry  days. 
The  swallow  has  her  home; 

A  holy  grave  doth  rise, 
Close  to  the  green  sea-waves 
That  wash  the  yellow  shore; 
A  weeping  willow's  branch, 
A  wild  shrub's  crape-like  vail 
This  lone  grave  shadeth  o'er. 

Besides  this  single  shrub. 

There  comes  no  thing  to  mourn 

The  glorious  dead's  decease; 

Who,  for  a  century. 

After  a  busy  life. 

Sleeps  here  in  endless  peace. 

He  was  a  hero  bold. 
The  last-left  valorous  knight, 
Who  for  fair  freedom  fought. 
But  how  could  fate  protect 
One,  on  whom  his  own  land 
Ingratitude  had  wrought? 


28     — 

He  into  exile  went, 
Lest  his  degenerate  land 
He  should  be  forced  to  see, 
And,  seeing,  he  should  curse; 
While,  from  an  alien  shore. 
He  looks  with  charity. 

And  here,  day  after  day. 

He  watched  the  clouds  that  came 

From  his  own  dearest  home. 

Was  it  the  sunset  glow. 

Or  yet  his  country's  shame 

That  burned  in  heaven's  dome? 

He  often  sat  to  list 
The  murmurs  of  the  waves 
That  move  the  rolling  sea. 
He  almost  dreamed  he  heard 
His  country,  risen  again, 
Was  happy,  proud  and  free! 

That  he  should  hear  once  mo 
His  native  land  was  free; 
Was  still  his  fond  belief. 
And  for  this  freedom's  news 
He  waited,  until  death 
Brought  kindliest  relief. 

At  home,  even  now,  his  name  - 
Is  hardly  known.     But  one 
Eemembers  him,  the  bard. 
Forgotten  he  would  be 
Sang  not  of  him  the  bard, 
Freedom's  Eternal  guard ! 


—    29    — 
AUNT   SAKAH. 

SARI  NENI. 

Upon  the  threshold  sits,  by  age  bent  down, 
Aunt  Sarah,  bowing  low  her  silver  crown; 
An  eye-glass  rides  upon  her  bony  nose, 
I  fancy  her  own  funeral  shroud  she  sews. 
Aunt  Sarah,  do  you  still  the  days  recall. 
When  "Darling  Sally"  you  were  named  by  all? 

What  heretofore  she  did  in  dresses  wear — , 
The  folds  and  creases — now  her  face  doth  bear; 
Clad  now  in  faded  rags,  her  dress,  I  trow. 
Must  have  been  new  some  twenty  years  ago. 
Aunt  Sarah,  do  you  still  the  days  recall, 
When  "Darling  Sally"  you  were  named  by  all? 

I  almost  freeze  when  I  behold  her  head, 
The  winter  hath  thereon  its  white  snow  shed. 
And  like  a  stork's  nest  in  the  chimney  there, 
Looks  on  her  hoary  head  her  straggling  hair. 
Aunt  Sarah,  do  you  still  the  days  recall. 
When  "Darling  Sally"  you  were  named  by  all? 

Her  eyes,  once  bright,  have  left  their  native  place, 
Sunk  in  and  beautify  no  more  her  face. 
They  faintly  flicker  in  a  ghastly  gloom 
As  tapers  left  to  burn  in  some  death-room. 
Aunt  Sarah,  do  you  still  the  days  recall, 
When  "Darling  Sally"  you  were  named  by  all? 

A  barren  plain,  it  seems,  is  now  her  breast, 
As  if  beneath  not  even  a  heart  did  rest. 
Her  heart,  not  wholly  dead,  still  pulsates  there, 
And  sometimes  does  its  old  emotions  share. 
Aunt  Sarah,  do  you  still  the  days  recall. 
When  "Darling  Sally"  you  were  named  by  all? 

Youth  is  a  spendthrift,  who  will  freely  spend 
His  wealth  and  charms,  and  does  not  apprehend 
The  miser  father — Age — who  will  some  day 


—    30    — 

Gather  the  treasures  spent,  take  them  away. 
Aunt  Sarah,  do  you  still  the  days  recall. 
When  "Darling  Sally"  you  were  named  by  all? 


THE   EUINS   OF   THE   INN. 

A   CSARDA  ROMJAI. 

Oh  beauteous,  boundless  stretch  of  lowland  plain. 

My  glad  heart's  pleasure  ground  dost  still  remain? 

With  hills  and  vales  the  broken  highland  seems 

A  volume  that  with  countless  pages  teems; 

But  thou,  where  hill  succeeds  not  hill,  my  plain, 

Art  like  an  open  page,  whereof  I  gain 

The  knowledge  at  a  glance,  and  over  thee 

The  loftiest  thoughts  are  written  legibly. 

'Tis  sad,  I  cannot  pass  by  happy  chance 

My  life  upon  the  puszta's  wide  expanse. 

Here  would  I  dwell  amid  these  valleylands. 

As  the  free  Bedouin  on  Arabian  sands. 

Puszta,  thou  art  the  type  of  liberty, 

And,  liberty,  thou  art  as  God  to  me! 

For  thee,  my  Deity,  alone  I  live. 

That  once  for  thee  my  life-blood  I  may  give; 

And,  by  my  grave,  when  I  for  thee  have  died, 

My  cursed  life  shall  then  be  sanctified. 

But  what  is  this — grave,  death,  what  do  I  write? 

But  marvel  not,  for  ruins  meet  my  sight: 

Not  ruins  of  a  fort,  but  of  an  inn; 

Time  asks  not  to  what  end  the  house  hath  been; 

A  fortress  or  a  tavern,  'tis  the  same; 

He  treads  o'er  both  alike,  and,  where  he  came. 

Walls  totter,  crumbling,  iron  ev'n  as  stone. 

And  nothing,  high  or  low,  he  leaves  alone. 

Of  stone  how  came  they  this  old  inn  to  rear,       - 

When  all  the  lowland  shows  no  quarry  near? 

A  town  or  hamlet  nestled  here  at  first. 

Long  ere  the  Turkish  rule  our  land  had  cursed. 

(Poor  Hungary,  my  wretched  land,  ah,  me. 

How  many  yokes  have  been  endured  by  thee!) 


—    31    — 

This  ancient  town  was  sacked  by  Osman's  hordes, 

Who  razed  each  house  therein  except  the  Lord's. 

The  church  remained,  a  ruin,  it  is  true, 

*Still  of  our  loss  a  mourner  left  to  view. 

For  centuries  it  stood  thus,  stood  to  mourn. 

Till  at  the  last,  by  sorrow  overborne. 

It  fell,  and,  lest  its  stones  should  scattered  be. 

They  built  the  wayside  inn  which  here  you  see. 

From  God's  house  build  an  inn!  and  wherefore  nay? 

One  serves  the  body,  one  the  soul,  I  say. 

Each  in  our  being  has  an  equal  share. 

On  each  we  must  attend  with  duteous  care. 

From  God's  house  build  an  inn!  and  wherefore  nay? 

■Our  life  can  please  our  God  in  either  way. 

And  purer  hearts  within  an  inn  I've  known. 

Than  some  who  daily  kneel  before  God's  throne. 

Inn,  fallen  inn!  when  yet  within  thy  door 

The  travelers  rested  and  enjoyed  thy  store. 

My  fantasy  builds  up  thy  wall  anew. 

And  one  by  one  thy  transient  guests  I  view. 

The  wandering  journeyman  with  staff  is  here. 

The  puszta's  son  in  greasy  cloak  stands  near, 

There,  with  his  long  beard,  is  a  peddling  jew, 

A  tinker  from  Wallachia,  with  a  few 

Who  drink;  The  smiling  hostess,  young  and  fair, 

Flirts  with  a  merry  student  who  is  there. 

The  wine  has  made  his  head  a  little  light. 

His  heart  far  more  the  hostess  sweet  and  bright. 

The  aged  host!  in  rage  why  starts  he  not? 

He  calmly  sleeps  beside  the  stack,  I  wot! 

Then  'neath  the  haystack's  shade,  now  in  the  tomb. 

Where  too,  his  fair  young  wife,  hath  long  found  room: 

All  have  returned,  long  years  since,  dust  to  dust; 

The  inn  hath  fallen  a  prey  to  age's  rust. 

The  wind  the  covering  from  its  head  did  tear-  - 

The  roof,  whereof  dismantled  it  stands  bare, 

As  though  its  master,  time,  it  stood  before, 

And  prayed  for  tetter  usage  than  of  yore. 

In  vain  the  suppliant  prays;  day  after  day. 

Crumbling,  it  falls,  until  one  cannot  say 

Where  was  the  doorway,  or  the  window  where. 


—     32     -- 

The  chimney  yet  stands  pointing  heavenward  there. 

It  was  the  dead's  last  hope  before  it  fell; 

The  cellar  is  a  ruin;  and  the  well, 

Whose  hoist  one  day  some  passing  vagrant  stole. 

Leaving  behind  the  crossbeam  and  the  pole, 

On  which  a  royal  eagle  came  to  light, 

Because  the  puszta  yields  no  loftier  height; 

Behold  his  look  and  mien  so  full  of  pride; 

His  memories  seem  with  ages  gone  to  bide. 

The  sun,  that  heavenly  lover,  flames  above. 

He  burns  because  his  heart  is  filled  with  love 

For  "Delibab'V^    the  puszta's  fairy  child. 

Whose  fond  eyes  gaze  at  him  in  yearmings  wild. 


THE   CKOWN   OF   THE   DESEKT. 

A  SIVATAG  KORONaJA. 

Like  an  old  king's  hoary  head 
The  desert  seems  to  be; 
One  grows  hair,  the  other  grass, 
But  sparingly  I  see. 

On  this  old  royal  head 
An  oak-tree  is  the  crown. 
It  doubtless  could  the  tale 
Of  many  an  age  hand  down. 

Once  it  began  to  speak. 
A  cloud  in  search  of  rest, 
Weary  of  roaming  far. 
Became  the  old  King's  guest. 

"The  story  of  your  life,  proud  oak, 
From  you  I  wish  to  hear." 
Thus  spoke  the  cloud;  the  tree  replied 
In  whispers  silver  clear. 

"In  foreign  parts,  far,  far  away  from  here 
Did  my  ancestors  live.    My  mother  dear 
Was  the  primeval  woods'  most  stately  queen. 


—     33     — 

For  miles  around  no  oak  like  her  was  seen. 

In  love  with  her  once  fell  the  tempest-gale, 

But  all  his  wooings  were  of  no  avail. 

My  mother  loved  him  not,  and  he,  O,  shame! 

Swore  black  revenge,  and  carried  out  the  same.. 

On  mother's  breast  I  and  my  sisters  fair 

Had  lived  in  bliss — how  happy  we  were  there! 

But  soon  the  gale,  with  hatred  filled  and  spite, 

Tore  us  with  brutish  force  from  her  one  night;. 

And  onward  drove  me,  till  at  last  I  found 

A  rest  in  this  bleak  desert's  sterile  ground. 

I  grew  up  here,  and  centuries  have  I 

Seen  slowly  come  and  slowly  pass  me  by. 

My  life  is  sad,  and  through  these  many  years- 

I  found  my  sole  relief  in  burning  tears. 

In  vain  I  look  around,  I  cannot  see 

Even  one  that  is  of  my  dear  family. 

Once  in  a  while  I'm  visited  by  men. 

I  serve  them  cheerfully,  as  well  I  can. 

All  those  who  come  in  summer's  burning  heat 

Find  my  delightful  shade  a  joyous  treat. 

And  fire  is  kindled  from  my  branches  dry 

For  those  who,  in  the  winter  days,  pass  by. 

As  gallows  even,  I  end  the  misery 

Of  those  who,  in  despair  have  come  to  me. 

And  this  is  all;  with  this  I  now  have  told 

The  story  of  my  life;  now  being  old, 

I  wish  to  die — to  end  my  life  and  woe! 

Once  in  a  while  the  gale,  my  ancient  foe. 

Comes  here,  but  harms  me  not.    He  does  in  vaia 

Shake  me  with  all  his  might;  I  firm  remain. 

But  what  will  bring  about  my  fall  at  length, 

I,  who  for  ages  stood  in  giant  strength? 

Alas,  I  know!  grown  rotten  to  the  core. 

The  thankless  worms  which  in  my  heart  I  bore 

Will  kill  me  soon.    O,  God!  I  thee  implore 

To  have  for  me  a  nobler  end  in  store." 


—     34     — 

It  was  a  tale  of  woe  the  cloud 
Thus  heard  the  oak  recite; 
It  was  a  tale  which  did  his  heart 
To  sympathy  invite. 

Full  of  compassion,  then,  he  hurled 
His  lightning  on  the  tree, 
The  flames  devoured  it,  ending  thus 
A  life  of  misery. 


THE   GOOD   OLD   LANDLOKD. 

A  JO  OREG  KOCSMaROS. 

Here,  in  the  lowland,  where  you  travel  far  away 
Before  you  reach  the  hills,  here,  on  the  alf old's  plain, 
Contented  now  I  dwell,  my  heart  is  glad  and  gay. 
Because,  while  roaming  'round,  I  joy  and  pleasures 

gain. 
My  home  is  in  the  quiet  village  public-house; 
But  seldom  sounds  therein  the  noise  of  a  carouse. 
A  tearty,  good  old  man  is  landlord  of  the  place. 
Grant  unto  him,  my  God,  blissful  and  happy  days. 

My  room  is  neat,  none  ask  me  for  my  board  to  pay; 
Ne'er  have  I  been,  as  here,  cared  for  so  tenderly! 
The  meals  are  served  in  time  though  others  be  away. 
But,  if  I  should  be  late,  they  all  will  wait  for  me. 
One  thing  I  do  not  like,  the  master  of  the  house 
Quarrels  once  in  a  while  with  his  good-hearted  spouse. 
But  what  of  that?  Soon  kindness  re-illumes  his  face, 
Grant  unto  him,  my  God,  blissful  and  happy  days. 

Sometimes,  to  pass  the  time,  we  former  days  recall. 
Which  were  for  him,  by  far,  the  happiest  and  best. 
He  owned  his  house  and  farm,  had  plentiful  of  all, 
He  knew  not  e'en  how  many  cattle  he  possessed. 
Knaves  borrowed  all  his  gold  and  fraudulently  kept; 
The  Danube's  stormy  floods  once  o'er  his  homestead 

swept, 
And  thus  they  grew  so  poor,  the  landlord  and  his  race, 
Grant  unto  him  my  God,  blissful  and  happy  days. 


m 


—    35    — 

Tor  him  the  sun  of  life  is  now  about  to  set 
And  aged  men  may  wish  to  have  at  last  some  rest. 
Alas!  misfortune  has,  I  notice  with  regret, 
Left  him  oppressed  with  care,  with  sorrow  filled  his 

breast; 
All  day  he  works,  the  Sunday  e'en  is  not  his  own, 
Late  he  retires  to  bed,  and  rises  with  the  dawn. 
Filled  with  compassion,  I  him  tenderly  embrace. 
Grant  unto  him,  my  God,  blissful  and  happy  days. 

I  often  beg  of  him  to  be  of  better  cheer. 
Say  better  times  will  come,  ending  his  misery; 
"Ay,  ay,  it  will  be  so", — he  says — "my  end  is  near, 
And,  when  the  grave  receives  me,  I  shall  happy  be". 
This  answer  fills  my  heart  with  sorrow  and  with  grief, 
Falling  upon  his  breast,  I  find  in  tears  relief. 
My  dear  old  father  is  the  landlord  of  this  place, 
■Grant  unto  him,  my  God,  blissful  and  happy  days. 


TWO   BKOTHEKS. 

KET  TESTvAk. 

A  comrade  I  possess  of  sterling  worth. 
Honest  and  true  he  is  from  head  to  heel. 
When  sorrow's  chill  and  windy  blasts  I  feel. 

He  will  around  me  fold  the  cloak  of  mirth. 

If  I,  my  country's  fate  considering, 

Sad  may  become  and  almost  moved  to  tears. 
My  dear  companion  forthwith  then  appears. 

Saying  "cheer  up,  this  is  no  manly  thing". 

"Be  patient  now",  he  whispers,  "rouse,  dear  friend, 
A  better  fate  will  come  and,  once  again. 
To  heaven's  good  graces  and  goodwill  attain: 

If  yet  will  help  our  poor  forsaken,  land. 

If  hopeless  love  has  made  me  sore  at  heart 
And  resignation  holds  me  grieved  and  dumb. 
Then  my  friend  tarries  not,  but  soon  doth  come, 

Saying:  "Be  of  good  cheer!  a  child  thou  art! 


—     36     — 

Lose  not  thy  faith";  such  is  his  soothing  way — 
"Although  it  seems  that,  she  on  whom  was  spent 
Love's  capital,  is  quite  indifferent. 

She  will  all  this  with  interest  repay". 

This  line  of  thought  makes  me  to  think,  alas! 

That  I  so  poor,  so  impecunious  am; 

Again  I  hear  the  cheering  epigram; 
"Thio  hopeless  state  of  things  thou  wilt  see  pass". 

"B3  patient,  friend,  the  time  willsoon  arrive, 
When  thou  cold  rooms  shalt  no  more  occupy. 
And  when  frost's  crystal  flowers  shall  beautify 
Thy  window-panes,  and  upon  them  shall  thrive". 

Thus  flows  my  dear  companion's  cheering  speech, 
Till  I  forget  my  sorrow  and  my  care. 
And  all  around  me  groweth  bright  and  fair; 

My  soul  hath  landed  on  a  happy  beach! 

This  friend,  whom  I  am  ever  glad  to  meet, 
A  haughty  brother  has,  with  laugh  and  sneer 
For  my  companion's  way  of  giving  cheer. 

And  him  he  shamefully  with  blows  doth  treat. 

This  brother  is  a  stern  and  churlish  man. 

He  drives  my  friend  from  me  and  smites  his  face. 
Yet  can  no  usage  ill  his  love  efface. 

He  will  return  again,  whene'er  he  can. 

And  must  I  tell  you,  who  this  friend  may  be. 
Whom  to  possess  is  now  my  happy  lot? 
"Hope"  is  his  name.  Who  knows  and  loves  him  not? 

His  sterner  brother  is  "Eeality". 


-0- 


WOLF  ADYENTUEE. 

FARKASKaLAND. 

"Thou'st  eaten,  comrade;  bloody  are  thy  fangs, 
While  we  around  here  suff'er  hunger's  pangs. 


—     37     — 

The  howling  tempest  blows,  while,  far  and  near, 
The  land  lies  waste,  the  winter  is  severe. 

No  trace  can  we  espy  of  man  or  beast, 

Come,  tell  us  quickly  now,  where  was  the  feast?" 

A  pack  of  hungry  wolves  thus  seek  to  learn, 
Where  one, — their  fellows, — did  his  prey  discern. 

Without  delay,  the  wolf  that  hath  fared  well, 
Proceeds  the  following  history  to  tell: 

"A  shepherd  and  his  wife  a  hut  maintain. 
Which  I  sought  out,  down  there  in  yonder  plain. 

Behind  their  hut,  I  knew  there  was  a  fold. 
Hearing  the  sheep  bleat,  and  to  sup  made  bold. 

To  this  abode  last  night  did  softly  hie 

Two  stealthy  wanderers — a  young  man  und  I. 

He  had  a  sweet  tooth  for  the  shepherd's  wife, 
I  for  a  sheep  was  bound  to  risk  my  life. 

The  dandy  sneaked  around;  I  could  not  sup 
On  mutton,  so,  instead,  ate  him  up. 


THE   MANIAC. 

AZ  ORULT. 

Why  bother  me?  Away! 
Be  quickly  off,  I  say! 
Great  work  I  have  on  hand  just  now 
I  twist  a  whip  with  sweating  brow. 
Prom  rays  of  sun,  with  which  I  will 
Scourge  the  world  till  its  cries  to  fill 
The  air,  and  I  will  laugh  as  she 
Laughed,  mocking  at  my  misery. 

Ha,  ha,  ha! 
Por  such  is  life!  We  laugh  and  weep. 
Till  death  brings  its  eternal  sleep. 
I,  too,  was  dead;  some  years  ago 


—    38     — 

To  poison  me  were  mean  and  low 

Those  of  my  friends  who  drank  my  wine^ 

What  did  they  do?  who  can  divine? 

While  I  was  lying  in  the  shroud, 

Embracing  me,  they  cried  aloud! 

I  felt  that  I  could  rise  and  bite 

Their  noses  off,  but  just  for  spite 

I  thought^let  them  their  nostrils  keep: 

When  I  become  a  rotten  heap, 
And,  decomposed,  lie  in  their  way. 
From  smelling  me  explode  they  mayl 

Ha,  ha,  ha! 
W^here  did  they  bury  me? 
In  Afric's  sandy  sea. 
This  was  most  fortunate,  for,  lo! 
Hyen    dug  me  from  below; 
My  only  benefactor  he, 
I  cheated  him  most  skillfully; 
My  limbs  he  tried  to  chew  and  gnaw;. 
I  flung  my  heart  into  his  jaw. 
So  bitter  was  my  heart,  thatlie 
Soon  died  of  it  in  agony, 

Ha,  ha,  ha! 
Alas!  this  always  is  the  end 
O.  those  who  other  folk  befriend! 
But  what  is  man?  Tell  me  who  can. 
Some  say  the  root  of  flowers  fair, 
Which  bloom  above  in  heaven  there! 
Man  is  a  flower,  'tis  true,  whose  root 
Down  into  deepest  hell  doth  shoot;  ^ 
I  heard  a  sage  these  things  discuss  one  day 
Who,  being  a  fool,  of  hunger  died,  they  say;. 
Instead  of  cramming  learning  in  his  head, 
Why  did  he  not  steal,  rob  and  kill  for  bread?: 

Ha,  ha,  ha! 
Why  laugh  I  like  a  fool  here,  why^ 
I  should  lament  and  loudly  cry. 
The  world's  so  bad  that  even  the  sky 
Will  often  weep  that  it  gave  birth 
To  such  foul  creatures  as  the  earth. 
But  what  becomes  of  heaven's  tear? 


—    39     — 

Falling  upon  tins  earth  down  here, 
Men  tread  upon  it  with  their  feet  I 
God's  tear  becomes — mud  in  the  street. 

Ha,  ha,  ha! 
A  hoary  veteran  is  the  sky, 
The  sun  and  moon  his  medals  signify. 
The  clouds,  the  threadbare  cloak  he  wears^ 
And  thus  the  brave  old  soldier  fares, 
A  cross  and  rag  pay  for  his  cares, 

Ha,  ha,  ha! 
What  means  the  quail's  call  in  man's  tongue,. 
When  chattering  in  the  morning  joung? 
He  says  of  women  to  beware. 
She'll  draw  yoii  sure  into  a  snare. 
Woman  is  a  splendid  creature. 
Beautiful  though  dangerous; 
The  lovelier  in  form  and  feature. 
More  o    peril  she  brings  us. 
A  deadly  drink  she  serves  in  cups  of  gold. 
Love's  drink  to  quaff  I  often  did  make  bold. 
One  drop  of  thee,  O!  what  a  heavenly  treat! 
A  sea  with  honey  filled  is  not  so  sweet! 
Yet  from  one  drop  such  gall  can  be  distilled 
As  though  the  sea  with  poisonous  drugs  were  filled! 
Have  you  seen  ocean  depths  the  tempests  plough? 
They  furrow  it;  deaths  seeds  are  sown,  I  trow. 
Have  you  seen  tempest,  this  brown  ugly  churl. 
His  lighthing-flashes  o'er  the  wide  sea  hurl? 

Ha,  ha,  ha! 
The  fruit  when  ripe  falls  from  the  tree; 
Kipe  earth,  you  must  be  plucked,  I  see. 
Until  to-morrow  I  shall  wait 
Then,  hoary  earth,  you'll  expiate 
Your  crimes!  a  great  deep  hole 
I'll  dig  in  thee,  and,  on  parole, 
I'll  fill  it  up  with  powder  dry. 
And  blow  the  earth  up  to  the  sky! 

Ha,  ha,  ha! 


—    40     — 
THE   LAST    CHAEITY. 

AZ  UTOLSO    ALAMIsZNA. 

A  single  mother  bore  these  two-  - 

The  poet  and  the  angry  fate, — 

And  thus  this  life  they  journeyed  through, 

Being  friends  and  ever  intimate. 

Trees  then,  as  now,  grew  all  around 
And  many  rested  in  their  shade; 
It  served  the  minstrel  too,  he  found 
A  branch,  of  which  a  staff  he  made. 


These  were  the  only  friends  he  knew — 
The  beggar's  staif,  the  angry  fate. 
All  else  were  faithless  and  untrue, 
But  each  of  these  was  his  true  mate. 

But  what  had  of  his  lute  become? 
Do  minstrels  not  possess  a  lyre? 
Ay — ay — he  had  one  too,  not  dumb 
That  gave  forth  strains  to  charm  and  fire. 

Once  of  his  lute  he  grasped  the  string. 
Once  in  a  stormy,  thundering  night. 
And  mute  became  the  thunder's  ring 
To  hear  his  song  far  up  the  height. 

And  when  the  angry,  murky  sky 
Had  listened  to  his  song  divine. 
It  looked  with  smiling,  star-lit  eye  ^ 
Down  on  the  bard  in  calm  benign. 

But  lo!  when  hungry  he  became 
He  went  the  sons  of  men  to  greet, 
Thinking  the  hardest  hearts  to  tame 
"With  strains  so  marvellously  sweet. 

That  which  had  lulled  the  tempest's  roar 
And  made  the  dark  sky  smile  again, 
In  mighty  chords  he  did  outpour 
"With  mellow  and  melodious  strain. 


41 


^ut  what  the  storm  and  sky  obeyed 
Utterly  fails  men  to  impress; 
When  tuneful  songs  he  vainly  played, 
The  shamed  lute  breaks  in  pained  distress. 

Such  is  the  lyre's  unhappy  tale. 
But  of  the  bard's  career  who  knows? 
None  can  tell  when  misfortune's  gale 
Brought  his  long-suifering  to  a  close. 

Before  a  younger  race  he  stood, 

After  the  lapse  of  many  years. 

The  locks  ungrizzled  'neath  his  hood 

Had  been  made  scant  by  cares  and  fears. 

"A  few  small  pence  for  charity!" 
His  piteous,  faint  voice  then  demands. 
While,  like  a  dry  twig,  quiveringly 
He  stretches  forth  his  trembling  hands. 

Then  sympathic  voices  ask: 

"Who  art  thou  thus  with  grief  bowed  down. 

Whom  fate  hath  set  so  hard  a  task. 

And  on  whom  God  doth  seem  to  frown?" 

He  pleads  again  and  tells  his  name; 
"A  few  pence",  when,  O,  strange  to  hear 
The  answer  comes:  "IS top,  child  of  fame. 
Thou  dost  not  need  to  beg  good  cheer!" 

"Thy  name  shines  brightly  as,  at  night. 
The  starry  heaven  glows  in  fire. 
The  songs  men  once  despised  delight. 
The  world  which  now  applauds  thy  lyre" 

"Hail  to  thee,  great  one,  haste  to  change 
'  Thy  rags  and  be  in  velvets  dressed, 
A  bounteous  board  we  now  arrange, 
A  laurel  wreath  on  thee  shall  rest!" 

"I  thank  you  for  this  speech  so  fair, 
"But  hunger's  pangs  I  feel  no  more, 
'"For  velvet  garb  I  have  no  care, 
'  "But  wear  these  rags  which  long  I  wore." 


42 


"A  goodly  thing  it  is  to  see 
"The  laurel  wreath  a  proud  youth  crown; 
"But  sprouts  and  leaves  can  no  more  be, 
"When  sapless  trunks  are  crumbling  down. 

"But  a  few  pence  I  still  require, 
"And  for  them  grateful  I  shall  be; 
"The  coffin-maker  waits  his  hire 
"Who  fits  my  final  home  for  me!" 


O,    JUDGE  ME   NOT. 

MEG   NE   ITELJ. 


O,  judge  me  not,  fair  maid,  I  pray; 
Not  from  our  first  and  sole  salute; 
Not  always  is  my  tongue,  as  then, 
So  ill-behaved,  so  dumb  and  mute. 

Oft  floweth  from  my  lips  a  stream 
Of  cheerful  speech,  and- often  floats 
Humor  or  jesting  o'er  its  waves. 
Like  merry  folks  in  pleasure-boats. 

But  when  I  first  saw  thee,  I  tried 
Some  word  to  say,  and  tried  in  vain; 
Before  a  storm  breaks  out  all  round 
A  graveyard  quietude  will  reign. 

A  storm  came  up  here  in  my  breast; 
Speechless  I  stood,  charmed  by  a  spell: 
The  storm  broke  and  'mid  thunderings 
The  lightnings  of  my  wild  love  fell. 

How  the  tornado  rends,  destroys  ! 
But  I  shall  suff'er  patiently. 
For,  when  I  once  thy  love  shall  gain,. 
The  rainbow  of  my  soul  I'll  see. 


—    43    — 
ON   THE   DANUBE. 

A    DUN  AN. 

Tell  me,  old  stream,  how  oft  tliy  bosom  strong 
Is  cleft  by  storms  and  ships  that  glide  along? 

How  deep  and  wide  these  cuts!  On  heart  of  man 
Inflict  such  wounds  no  grief  or  passion  can. 

Yet  when  the  ship  is  gone,  the  storm  is  o'er. 
The  stream  rolls  smoothly,  showing  rifts  no  more. 

But,  when  the  human  heart  is  cleft,  no  calm 
Can,  heal  the  wound  or  bring  it  aught  of  balm. 


IN   THE   FOKEST. 

YAUONBAN. 

Night's  darkness  o'er  the  forest  creeps, 
Of  a  safe  guide  I  am  bereft. 
Which  path  leads  from  these  lonely  deeps,. 
Is  it  the  one  to  right  or  left? 

Over  me,  on. the  arch  of  sky. 
Many  a  star  doth  biightly  shine. 
Taking  their  course,  who  knows  if  I 
Might  reach  the  goal  for  which  I  pine? 

For,  brighter  than  all  stars  above. 
In  lustre  shone  my  darling's  eye; 
I  trusted  her,  false  was  her  love; 
Deceived,  still  o'er  my  loss  I  sigh. 


WHAT   IS   THE   USE. 

MI   HA.SZNA. 

What  is  the  use  of  ploughing  earth. 
Without  the  seed  that  springs  to  birth?. 
Neglecting  this,  but  weeds  will  grow 
And  all  your  work  for  naught  will  go. 


—     44    — 

IBelieve  me,  fairest,  sweetest  rose, 
Beneath  thy  glance  my  poor  heart  glows: 
And,  as  the  plough  the  ground  upheaves. 
Thy  glance  my  heart  in  furrows  leaves. 

Thy  glance  in  vain  cuts  deep  my  heart. 
But  sorrow  from  its  depths  will  start; 
Except  thou  sow  with  love,  and  fair. 
Sweet  scented  roses  will  bloom  there. 


-o- 


AT   THE   HAMLET'S   OUTSKIETS. 

FALU  VJiGi:N  KURTA  KOCSMA. 

Outside  the  hamlet,  on  the  sands 
Of  Szamosh'  banks,  an  inn  there  stands. 
Which  in  the  stream  were  mirrored  clear, 
Did  eventide  not  draw  so  near. 

The  night  draws  nigh,  the  daylight  wanes 
And  quiet  o'er  the  landscape  reigns; 
The  swinging  bridge  is  safely  bound 
And  darkness  girds  it  all  around. 

But,  in  the  tavern,  hark  the  noise. 
The  laugh  and  shout  of  village  boys. 
The  sound  of  cymbals  cleaves  the  air; 
The  gypsy-player  tarries  there. 

Come,  pretty  hostess,  darling  mine. 
Pray  give  us  some  of  your  best  wine; 
Let  it  possess  my  grandsire's  years. 
And  fervor  such  as  is  my  dear's. 

Strike,  gipsy  boy,  strike  up!  I  swear 
I  want  to  dance  a  livelier  air — 
My  money  all  to  you  I  roll; 
Tonight  I'll  dance  away  my  soul. 

But  some  one  knocks:  "My  master  says 
Too  great  the  noise  is  that  you  raise; 
Unless  in  bounds  your  mirth  you  keep, 
He  swears  he  cannot  get  to  sleep!" 


—     45     — 

"Bad  luck  to  you! — your  master  tell 
That  both  of  you  can  go  to  hell! 
Play,  gipsy  boy,  for  spite  now  play, 
Even  if  my  shirt  the  piper  pay. 

Again  a  knock  comes.   "For  God's  sake"" 
Pray  do  not  such  a  turmoil  make! 
I  beg  of  you  now  to  be  still, 
My  mother  lies  near  very  ill." 

None  answer  her.  The  noise  has  ceased^ 
Their  passion  is  subdued,  appeased. 
Mute  has  become  the  gipsy's  play, 
The  boys  in  silence  homeward  stray. 


THE   LOWERING   CLOUDS. 

ERESZKEDIK  LE   A  FELHO. 

The  lowering  clouds  are  dense  on  high, 
Autumnal  rain  pours  from  the  sky. 
The  sere  leaves  from  the  branches  fall, 
The  nightingale  still  sings  through  all. 

Late  is  the  hour:  the  night  has  set. 
Fair  little  brown  maid,  wak'st  thou  yet? 
Say,  hearest  thou  the  nightingale. 
Who  sings  her  plaintive,  sweet  love-tale  i 

The  rain  in  torrents  poureth  still, 
Dost  hear  the  nightingale's  sad  trill? 
The  hearts  of  all,  who  hear  her  song. 
In  yearning  love  do  ever  long. 

If  thou  art  not  asleep,  brown  may, 
Hearken  to  what  the  bird  doth  say, 
For  this  sad  bird  is  my  fond  love. 
My  soul,  breathed  forth,  that  floats  above. 


—        4:6        — 

THEOUGH   THE   VILLAGE. 

A  FALUBAN   UTCZAHOSSZaT. 

'Through  the  village,  all  the  way, 
A  gipsy  band  for  me  doth  play, 
A  flask  of  wine  I  wave  in  glee, 
I  dance  in  maddest  revelry. 

"O  gipsy,  play  thy  saddest  airs, 
That  I  may  weep  away  my  cares; 
But  when  yon  window  we  do  reach. 
Play  joyous  tunes  I  thee  beseech. 

The  maid  who  lives  there  is  my  star. 
The  star,  that  shot  from  me  afar; 
She  left  me,  strives  from  me  to  hide. 
And  blooms  at  other  lovers'  side. 

This  is  her  window.  Gipsy,  play 
A  tune  which  is  beyond  all  gay! 
Let  not  the  false  maid  even  see. 
That  I  can  feel  her  falsity. 


DEUNK  FOE  THE  COUNTEY'S  SAKE. 

RhSZtGSLG    A   riAZAKRT. 

God  bless  you  boys!  come  take  a  drink, 
Let  us  the  merry  glass  fill  high! 
Pray  let  me  not  my  country  see 
Forsaken  and  in  misery; 
Far  rather  drunk  in  dreams  I'd  lie. 

When  drunk,  I  dream  that  once  again 
At  home  the  voice  of  cheer  I  hear. 
It  seems  to  me,  that,  with  each  round 
Of  joyous  drink,  I  have  a  wound 
Thou  sufferest  from,  my  country  dear. 

If  it  could  be  wh  le  I  lie  drunk 
My  country  truly  happy  were — 
You  never  should,  good  friends,  I  say. 
Even  if  I  should  live  for  aye. 
Behold  me  sober  more,  I  swear! 


—        4:7        — 

THE  ROSEBUSH    SHAKES. 

RtSZKET    A   BOKOR. 

'The  rosebu:.}i  shakes  because 
A  bird  on  its  twig  flew, 

>  My  own  soul  shakes  because 
I  think,  my  dear,  of  you! 
I  think,  my  dear,  of  you. 
My  darling,  charming  maid, 
Thou  art  the  richest  gem 
My  God  has  ever  made. 

Swollen  the  Danube  is 
So  that  it  may  o'erflow. 
My  heart,  with  love  replete, 
Is  now  for  thee  even  so. 
Tell  me,  my  fairest  rose. 
Art  thou  to  me  still  true? 
Not  even  thy  parents  dear 
Can  love  thee  as  I  do. 

I  know  thy  love  was  mine 
In  last  year's  summer  weather; 
But  winter  came  since  then 
When  we  sojourned  together. 
And  should' st  thou  love  no  more, 
I  pray  God  bless  thee  still, — 
But,  if  thou  lov'st  me  yet, 
A  thousandfold  he  will! 


YOU  CANNOT  BID  THE  ELOWER. 

A  VIRAGNAK  MEGTILTANI 

You  cannot  bid  the  flower  not  bloom;  it  thrives 
When,  on  mild  zephyrs'  wings,  the    spring  arrives, 
A  girl  is  spring,  her  love  a  scented  flower, 
Which  buds  and  blooms  'neath  balmy  air  and  shower. 

When  first  I  saw  thee,  dear,  I  fell  in  love 
With  thy  fair  soul  and  tender  charm  thereof. 
With  that  soul's  beauty,  which  I  ever  see 
JReflected  in  thine  eyes  bewitchingly. 


—     48     — 

The  question  rises  sometimes  in  mj  heart — 
Lovest  thou  me,  or  yet  another's  art? 
These  thoughts  pursue  each  other  in  my  mind, 
As  sunrays  clouds,  when  blows  the  autumn  wind- 
Knew  I  another  waited  thy  embrace. 
Could  kiss  the  milk  and  roses  of  thy  face, 
My  broken  heart  I  far  away  would  bear, 
Or  end  in  death  the  depth  of  my  despair. 

Shine  upon  me,  O  star,  so  born  to  bless  ! 
Lighten  the  dreary  night  of  my  distress! 
O!  my  heart's  pearl,  if    thou  can'st  love  me,  love 
And  blessing  shall  be  thine  from  God  above. 


SHEPHEED  BOY,  POOE  SHEPHEED  BOY. 

JUHASZLEGLNY,   SZEGENY  JUHASZLEGlNY. 

"Come  shepherd  boy,  poor  shepherd  boy,  give  ear,, 
Behold  this  heavy  purse  with  gold  filled  here; 
Thy  poverty  I'll  purchase  now  from  thee, 
If  thou,  with  it,  thy  sweetheart  wilt  give  me". 

"If  but  an  earnest  were  this  glittering  gold. 
Thy  proffer  magnified  an  hundredfold, 
Nay,if  the  world  on  top  thou  shouldest  lay. 
My  pretty  one  thou  could'st  not  take  away!" 


INTO   THE   KITCHEN   DOOE   I  STEOLLED. 
befordultam  a  konyhaba. 

Into  the  kitchen  door  I  strolled 
To  light  my  pipe    I  then  made  bold, 
That  is  to  say,  't  would  have  been  lit, 
Had  there  not  been  full  fire  in  it. 

And,  since  my  pipe  was  lit,  I  went 
For  something  very  difi'erent. 
Simply  because  a  maiden  fair 
By  chance  I  had  espied  in  there. 


49 


It  was  lior  task  the  fire  to  light 
And  sooth,  ehe  did  the  task  aright; 
But,  O,  my  head!  her  lovely  eyes 
Were  flaming  in  more  brilliant  wise. 

As  I  stepped  in,  she  looked  at  me, 
Bewitchingly,  bewilderingly; 
My  burning  pipe  went  out,  but,  O! 
My  sleeping  heart  burned  all  aglow. 


HOW  VAST   THIS   WOKLD. 

EZ   A  VILAG  A  MIL  YEN  NAGY. 

How  vast  this  world  in  which  we  move. 
And  thou,  how  small  thou  art,  my  dove! 
But  if  thou  didst  belong  to  me. 
The  world  I  would  not  take  for  thee. 

Thon  art  the  sun,  but  I  the  night. 
Full  of  deep  gloom,  deprived  of  light. 
But  should  our  hearts  together  meet, 
A  glorious  dawn  my  life  would  greet. 

Ah!  look  not  on  me,  close  thine  eyes, 
My  soul  beneath  thy  glances  dies; 
Yet,  since  thou  can'st  not  love  me,  dear. 
Let  my  bereft  soul  perish  here. 


MY   FATHEE'S   TEADE   AND   MY   OWN. 

APAM  MESTERSEGE  ES  AZ  ENYEM. 

You  often  told  me,  father  dear. 
My  trade  and  your's  should  be  the  same; 
The  butcher's  trade  you  wished  me  take. 
But,  see,  an  author  I  became. 

You  hit  the  oxen  with  your  sledge, 
I  men  with  pen  and  ink  hit  hard. 
'Tis  all  the  same,  if  but  the  names 
Of  those  we  hit  we  disregard. 


—     50     — 
THE   MAGYAR   NOBLE. 

A  MAGYAR  KEMES. 

The  sword  which  once  my  fathers  bore, 
Hangs  on  the  wall  and  gleams  no  more, 
Eust  covers  it  instead  of  gore. 
I  am  a  Magyar  noble. 

I  never  work  and  never  will, 
The  thought  of  labor  makes  me  ill. 
Peasant,  't  is  thou  the  earth  must  till. 
I  am  a  Magyar  noble. 

Peasant,  make  good  the  road,  I  say. 
Thy  horse  doth  draw  the  load  that  way, 
But  go  afoot  I  never  may. 

I  am  a  Magyar  noble. 

Wherefore  should  I  for  science  care? 
The  sages  always  paupers  were. 
I  never  read  or  write,  I  swear! 
I  am  a  Magyar  noble. 

One  talent  I  possess  complete. 
Herein  with  me  none  can  compete: 
I  excellently  drink  and  eat. 

I  am  a  Magyar  noble. 

I  never  pay  my  tax  when  due, 
Wealth  have  I,  but  not  much,  't  is  true. 
How  much  owe  I  ?  Ask  but  the  jew. 
I  am  a  Magyar  noble.     ' 

The  country's  Cares  are  naught  to  me. 
I  heed  not  all  its  misery. 
Soon  they  will  pass  by  fate's  decree. 
I  am  a  Magyar  noble. 

My  ancient  rights  and  home  decay, 
And  when  I've  smoked  my  life  away. 
Angels  shall  bear  me  up  one  day. 
I  am  a  Magyar  noble. 


MICHAEL  VOROSMARTY, 


A   SUMMONS. 

SZOZAT. 

The  Magyar  National  Anthem. 

Loyal  and  true  for  aye  remain, 
Magyar,  to  this  thy  home! 
Here,  where  thy  cradle  stood,  once  more 
Verdant  shall  rise  thy  tomb. 

No  other  land  than  this  exists 

For  thee  beneath  the  sky; 

The  fates  may  bring  thee  bane  or  bliss, 

Here  thou  must  live  and  die! 

Thy  fathers'  blood  for  this  dear  spot 
Has  often  freely  flowed; 
Great  names  for  the  last  thousand  years 
Have  hallowed  this  abode. 

Here  fought,  to  found  a  native  land, 
Arpad  against  his  foes; 
Here  broke  the  yokes  of  slavery 
Hunyad  with  mighty  blows. 

Thy  gory  flag,  O,  freedom,  oft 
Has  been  unfurled  here! 
And  in  the  bloody  wars  we  lost 
Our  bravest  and  most  dear! 

In  spite  of  'scapes  and  dangers  past, 
In  spite  of  sanguine  strife; 
Though  bent,  we  are  not  broken  yet — 
Our  nation  still  has  life! 

And  mankind's  country,  the  great  world. 
To  thee  we  now  appeal! 
The  wounds  that  bled  a  thousand  years 
Should  kill  us  or  should  heal. 


52 


It  cannot  be,  that  all  these  hearts 
Should  here  have  died  in  vain; 
That  countless  faithful  breasts  for  naught 
Have  suffered  deadly  pain. 

It  cannot  be,  that  all  our  minds, 
Our  sacred  iron  will. 
That  all  our  efforts,  hopes  and  faith 
A  ghastly  curse  shall  kill. 

Yet  it  shall  come,  if  it  will  come, 
The  blissful,  brighter  day. 
For  which  a  hundred  thousand  lips 
Most  reverently  pray! 

Or,  if  it  come  not,  then  let  come 
The  day,  when  we  shall  die. 
When  o'er  our  tombs  our  country  dear 
Covered  with  gore  shall  lie. 

The  grave  where  we  are  sepulchred 
Nations  will  then  surround. 
And  men,  in  millions,  will  shed  tears 
Of  sorrow  most  profound. 

To  this,  thy  native  land,  Magyar 
Ever  devoted  be! 

It  nourisheth  thee,  and,  when  dead, 
Its  earth  receiveth  thee. 

No  other  land  than  this  exists 

For  thee  beneath  the  sky! 

The  fates  may  bring  thee  bane  or  bliss; 

Here  thou  must  live  and  die! 


THE  HOARY  GIPSY. 

A  VEN  CZIGaNY. 


Come,  gipsy,  play;  thou  had'st  thy  pay  in  drinks, 
Let  not  the  grass  grow  under  thee,  strike  up! 
On  bread  and  water  who  would  hear  life's  ills? 
With  glowing  wine  fill  high  the  parting  cup. 


—    53 

This  mundane  life  remains  for  aye  the  same, 

It  freezeth  now,  then  burneth  as  a  flame; 

Strike  up!  How  long  thou  yet  wilt  play  who  knows? 

Thy  bow-strings  soon  will  wear  out,  I  suppose. 

With  wine  and  gloom  are  filled  both  cup  and  heart, 

■Come,  gipsy,  play,  let  all  thy  cares  depart! 


Thy  blood  should,  like  a  whirlpool's  waters,  boil. 
Thought  after  thought  thy  active  brain  should  throng, 
Akin  to  brightest  stars  thy  eyes  should  gleam. 
More  thunderous  than  the  fierce  storm  be  thy  song 
And  wilder  than  the  winds  which  bring  the  hail. 
Which  ruins  harvests,  so  that  men  bewail. 
Strike  up!  How  long  thou  yet  wilt  play  who  knows? 
Thy  bow-strings  soon  will  wear  out,  I  suppose. 
With  wine  and  gloom  are  filled  both  cup  and  heart. 
Come,  gipsy,  play,  let  all  thy  cares  depart! 

Ay,  from  the  fierce  storm  lessons  take  in  song; 
Hark  to  its  sighs  and  groans,  its  shrieks  and  swells: 
It  killeth  lives,  ay,  that  of  men  and  beasts. 
Destroys  the  sailing  ships  and  high  oaks  fells. 
All  o'er  the  world  wars  rage;  in  blood  we  trod. 
And  on  our  dear  home  rests  the  bane  of  God. 
Strike  up!  How  long  thou  yet  wilt  play  who  knows? 
Thy  bow-strings  soon  will  wear  out,  I  suppose. 
With  wine  and  gloom  are  filled  both  cup  and  heart, 
Come,  gipsy,  play,  let  all  thy  cares  depart! 

Whose  howls  and  shrieks  are  heard  above  the  storm? 

Whose  was  this  half- suppressed,  heart-rending  sigh? 

What  like  a  mill  grinds  audibly  in  hell? 

Who  doth  with  thunders  smite  the  heaven  on  high? 

A  broken  heart,  minds  which  in  darkness  grope, 

A  routed  army,  or  a  forlorn  hope? 

Strike  up!  How  long  thou  yet  wilt  play  who  knows? 

Thy  bow-strings  soon  will  wear  out,  I  suppose. 

With  wine  and  gloom  are  filled  both  cup  and  heart, 

vCome,  gipsy,  play,  let  all  thy  cares  depart! 


—    54    — 

As  if  again  we  should,  throughout  the  land, 

The  cries  of  men  in  fevered  frenzy  hear; 

Of  murderous  brothers  see  the  daggers  gleam; 

On  orphans'  cheeks  behold  the  flowing  tear; 

Should  hear  the  falcon's  pinions  soar  on  high; 

Endless  Promethean  agonies  descry. 

Strike  up!  How  long  thou  yet  wilt  play  who  knows? 

Thy  bow-strings  soon  will  wear  out,  I  suppose. 

With  wine  and  gloom  are  filled  both  cup  and  heart. 

Come,  gipsy,  play,  let  all  thy  cares  depart! 

The  stars  above,  this  earth — all  sorrows'  home — 
Leave  them  alone,  their  woes  let  them  endure! 
From  sin  and  stain  by  rushing  of  wild  streams 
And  tempests'  fury  they  may  yet  grow  pure. 
And  Noah's  ark  of  old  shall  come  again 
And  in  its  compass  a  new  world  contain. 
Strike  up!  How  long  thou  yet  wilt  play  who  knows? 
Thy  bow-strings  soon  will  wear  out,  I  suppose. 
With  wine  and  gloom  are  filled  both  cup  and  heart. 
Come,  gipsy,  play,  let  all  thy  cares  depart! 

Strike  up!  But  no — now  leave  the  chords  alone; 
When  once  again  the  world  may  have  a  feast. 
And  silent  have  become  the  storm's  deep  groans. 
And  wars  and  strifes  o'er  all  the  earth  have  ceased,. 
Then  play  inspiringly!  and,  at  the  voice 
Of  thy  sweet  strings,  the  Gods  may  even  rejoice! 
Then  take  again  in  hand  the  songful  bow. 
Then  may  thy  brow  again  with  gladness  glow, 
And  with  the  wine  of  joy  fill  up  thy  heart. 
Come,  gipsy,  play!  let  all  thy  cares  depart! 


\  TO   FEANCIS   LISZT. 

-V  LISZT  FERENCZHEZ. 

IvEXOWNED  musician  of  the  world, 
Where'er  thou  art  to  us  still  kin! 
Hast  thou  for  Lliis  sad  land  a  song 
To  thrill  the  core  and  brain  within? 
Hast  thou  a  song  to  move  the  heart,, 
A  song  to  make  all  grief  depart? 


55 


The  load,  which,  for  a  hundred  years, 
Weighed  on  us,  \vas  our  sins  and  fate; 
Thus  bound,  this  wavering  race  hath  lived, 
Content  to  be  inanimate: 
Even  if  it  rose  it  was  in  vain. 
As  moves  a  fever-stricken  brain! 

A  better  epoch  comes;  the  dawn 
Of  morn,  for  which  so  long  we  prayed, 
Has,  amid  sweet  throes  of  relief. 
Unto  our  hearts  new  hope  conveyed; 
The  love  for  our  old  home  revives; 
Gladly  for  it  we  give  our  lives. 

We  feel  each  beating  of  its  pulse; 
Our  hearts  rejoice  to  hear  its  name; 
Our  country's  wrong  we  all  endure; 
We  blush  to  know  its  slightest  shame. 
O,  may  the  throne  forever  stand 
Joyous  and  steadfast  o'er  the  land! 

Great  scholar  from  this  home  of  storms. 
Wherein  a  world's  heart  beats,  and  where 
The  sun,  grown  bold  at  last  to  dawn, 
A  blood-red  semblance  seems  to  wear, 
Where  fiends  of  hate  are  forced  to  hide 
By  generations'  swelling  tide. 

Now  in  their  place  in  snow-white  robes 

Walk  industry  and  peace  divine. 

In  the  new  era's  temple-halls 

Art  comes  to  set  its  heavenly  sign. 

While  countless  brains  think  for  the  land 

Ne'er  rests  the  nation's  giant  hand. 

O,  Song's  great  master,  sing  for  us! 
And,  when  thou  sing'st  of  days  gone  by, 
Let  thy  lay  be  a  storm,  wherein 
We  hear  the  thunder's  roll  on  high; 
And,  in  this  ode,  wild,  grave,  profound, 
May  victory's  ptean-song  resound. 


56 


Sing  such  a  lay  as  from  their  tombs 
Even  our  forefathers  shall  awake. 
So  as,  with  their  immortal  souls, 
The  present  race  from  sloth  to  shake — 
A  lay  which  brings  to  Hungary  bliss, 
And  treachery  damns  to  shame's  abyss. 

On  recollection's  manly  arm 
The  pale-faced  lady,  grief,  doth  come 
And  Mohacs's  storm  we  see  again:, 
A  civil  war  lays  waste  our  home, 
Although  the  tear  our  vision  blurs. 
The  balm  of  hope  our  heart  yet  stirs. 

And  thus  thou  wak'st  that  love  for  home, 
Which  ever  patriot  souls  has  thrilled, 
Which  to  the  memory  of  past  truth 
Clings  and  a  future  bright  doth  build. 
Then  may  thy  song  be  full  of  fire. 
Our  hearts  and  spirits  to  inspire. 

And  thus,  to  holy  passions  roused. 
Our  sons'  love  may  to  deeds  mature; 
Let  them  unite  in  sacred  bond 
For  thee  to  labor  and  endure. 
Like  one  man  should  the  nation  stand 
To  conquer  with  an  iron  hand. 

And  even  the  rocks,  as  if  our  bones 
They  were,  with  hallowed  joy  should  shake; 
The  Danube's  waves  flow  free,  as  when 
Our  blood  we  shed  for  home's  dear  feake; 
And,  where  we  knew  days  glad  and  dire, 
Thy  song  should  joyous  hope  inspire. 

And  dost  thou  hear  how,  at  this  song. 

Our  nation  rises  with  one  will; 

A  million  lips  repeat  the  lay, 

Which  fills  all  hearts,  all  souls  doth  thrill; 

Come  back  to  us!   With  thee  we  say: 

Thank  God,  our  race  doth  not  decay! 


—     57     — 
SOLOMON'S   CUESE.  ' 

SOI^MON  ATKA. 

''My  curse  upon  thee  light,  O,  Magyar  land! 
Curse  thee,  Magyar,  rebellious,  haughty,  proud! 
May  the  crown  shake  that  on  thy  head  doth  stand! 
Thy  homes  may  darkness  evermore  enshroud! 
Hard  be  thy  fate,  as  is  thy  sword  and  heart! 
And  in  thy  ranks  may  discord  still  have  part! 

And  thou,  O,  God,  who  hath  anointed  me. 

That  here,  on  earth,  I  thee  should  represent, 

Having  not  looked  on  me  protectingly,  ( 

To  all  thy  grace  I  am  indifferent. 

To  Solomon  no  resting  place  is  given. 

No  peace  on  earth,  and  no  desire  for  heaven." 

Thus,  like  the  outcast  angel,  curseth  low 
The  King,  to  exile  banished  by  his  land. 
His  shield  and  helmet  he  aw^ay  doth  throw 
And  broken  is  the  sword  he  hath  in  hand. 
The  patriots'  blood  has  left  thereon  its  trace; 
Eed  as  their  blood  glows  his  heroic  face. 

His  body  crushed,  his  spirit  more  so  still, 

A  gruesome,  deep-cut  wound  doth  cause  him  pain, 

And  yet,  this  wound  hath  not  for  him  such  ill 

As  this,  that  he  could  not  his  crown  maintain. 

He  flies,  but,  be  his  flight  however  swift. 

The  anguish  from  his  soul  he  cannot  lift. 

The  royal  fugitive  in  haste  retreats; 

Hills,  vales  and  streams  he  hath  already  passed. 

Arriving  at  the  borderland  he  greets 

An  old  umbrageous  forest's  depth  at  last. 

Here  endeth  now  the  path  of  our  sad  knight, 

'And  over  him  is  cast  the  gloom  of  night. 

The  years  roll  by;  the  trees,  now  richly  crowned. 
Their  verdure  lose  and  soon  stripped  bare  are  seen; 
Time  passeth  by  and  then  one  hears  the  sound 
Of  sweet  bird- songs  within  the  forest  green. 
The  antlers  of  the  wild  stag  yearly  grow; 
How  old  his  freedom  is  they  proudly  show. 


58    — 

A  broken  sword  is  there  the  exile's  cross, 
And  God's  free  earth  his  sacred  altar  there; 
Piously  he  doth  kneel  on  the  green  moss, 
Throughout  the  year  he  spendeth  days  in  prayer. 
A  long,  gray  beard  flows  o'er  his  pain-filled  breast: 
Each  hair  is  seemingly  divinely  blest. 

What  once  have  filled  his  soul — the  passions  strong- 
Are  now  subdued;  time  brought  him  healing  balm; 
Long  since  he  hath  forgotten  all  his  wrong, 
His  face  is  even  now  benign  and  calm. 
One  fervent  hope  his  longing  heart  doth  fill, 
That  blessing  on  the  Magyar  be  God's  will. 

Long  since  hath  died  away  the  awful  curse, 

Forgot  is  what  the  haughty  King  hath  dreamed; 

His  better  self  now  nobler  thoughts  doth  nurse. 

The  man  his  purer  nature  hath  redeemed. 

"Be  happy,  my  dear  Magyar  fatherland, 

And  may  thy  virtues  make  thee  strong  and  grand.' 

Thus  prayeth  he  and,  o'er  his  shattered  frame, 
Death  gains  at  last  his  victory  with  ease. 
He  yields  to  death's  most  unrelenting  claim, 
'Neath  autumn's  yellov/  leaves  he  sleeps  in  peace. 
Where  in  the  woods  the  kingly  exile  died. 
The  howling  beasts  of  prey  now  prowl  and  hide. 


THE   BITTER   CUP. 

KESERti  POHAE. 

Wine-Sonj?  from  the  drama  Cilley  and  the  Hunyadys. 

If  thou  hast  lost  thy  manly  heart 

Unto  a  woman  fair. 

And  she  has  by  her  wanton  art, 

Thy  happy  life  made  bare; 

If  her  false  eyes  now  seem  to  smile. 

Now  shed  a  feigned  tear. 

With  yearning  filling  thee  one  while, 

Then  causing  wounds  that  sear: 


ih'hd  o^ti  c^ucl 


59    — 


Think  over  this  and  drink;    . 
The  world  doth  pass  and  sink; 
A  bubble  bursts,  but  there 
Abides  the  empty  air. 

If  thou  hast  on  thy  friend  relied, 

As  thine  own  soul  he  was, 

Thy  secrets  did'st  to  him  confide, — 

Honor  and  country's  cause; 

And  he,  with  soft  and  murderous  hand, 

Hath  stabbed  thee  to  the  heart. 

Thy  ruin  skilfully  hath  planned 

By  treason's  baleful  art: 

Think  over  this  and  drink; 

The  world  doth  pass  and  sink; 

A  bubble  bursts,  but  there 

Abides  the  empty  air. 

If,  for  thy  country,  thou  dost  wield 
With  toil  thy  sacred  thought, 
Or,  on  the  perilous  battle  field. 
Thy  life-blood  sparest  not; 
And  if,  deluded,  it  should  spurn 
Thy  efi'orts  true  and  high. 
Or,  led  by. rulers  base,  should  turn 
And  sacrifice  decry: 

Think  over  this  and  drink; 

The  world  doth  pass  and  sink; 

A  bubble  bursts,  but  there 

Abides  the  empty  air. 

If  still,  within  thy  aching  heart. 

Doth  gnaw  the  worm  of  care. 

And  thou  forsaken  wholly  art 

By  men  and  fortune  fair; 

If  all  thy  pleasure,  hope,  delight 

Are  killed  by  poison's  bane, 

And  to  expect  new  days  more  bright 

Too  late  it  is,  in  vain: 

Think  over  this  and  drink; 

The  world  doth  pass  and  sink; 

A  bubble  bursts,  but  there 

Abides  the  empty  air. 


—     60     — 

And  if  despondency  and  wine, 

United  in  thy  brain, 

To  thee  the  picture  should  define. 

Of  thy  life's  barren  plain. 

Think  of  some  brave  and  noble  thing 

And  for  it  risk  thy  life; 

He  is  not  lost  who  still  doth  cling 

To  faith,  and  faces  strife; 
Think  over  this  and  drink: 
The  world  doth  pass  and  sink; 
But  while  it  still  doth  stand 
Structures  aud  wrecks  are  planned. 


BEAUTIFUL   HELEN. 

SZEP  ILONKA. 

The  hunter  sits  in  ambuscade 
And,  with  bent  bow,  awaits  his  game. 
While,  high  and  hot,  above  the  glade 
The  noonday  sun  does  brightly  flame; 

vain  he  waits  in  shady  groves; 
By  cooling  streams  the  wild  herd  roves. 

Anxiously  waits  the  hunter  yet. 
Trusting  good  fortune  soon  to  gain. 
When  presently  the  sun  will  set. 
And  lo!  he  does  not  wait  in  vain — 
But  'tis  no  game;  a  butterfly 
Chased  by  a  fair  maid,  passes  by. 

"Fair  insect,  golden  butterfly, 
O,  let  me  catch  you,  on  me  rest. 
Or  lead  me  to  what  place  you  hie. 
Where  the  sun  sinks  within  the  west.' 
She  speaks,  and,  like  a  chamois  light. 
Graceful  and  charming  is  her  flight. 

Arising  quick,  the  hunter  cries, 
"Now  this  is  noble  game,  God  wot. 
And  straight,  forgetting  all,  he  hies 
After  the  fair  maid,  lagging  not; 
In  sportive  pastime  thus  they  vie. 
He  follows  her  and  she  the  fly. 


—    61    — 

"I  have  you!"  say?  the  girl  with  glee, 
And,  having  caught  her  prize,  doth  stand,*; 
"I  have  you!"  gayly  then  says  he, 
And  on  her  shoulder  lays  his  hand. 
The  scared  girl  lets  her  captive  go^ 
Thrilled  by  his  eyes'  admiring  glow. 

II. 

Does  Peterdi's  house  stand  to  day? 
Does  he  still  live,  the  hoary  knight? 
The  house  still  stands,  but  in  decay; 
O'er  wine  he  sits  with  heart  grown  light. 
The  maiden's  eyes,  those  of  the  guest 
Love's  ardor  in  their  glow  suggest. 

The  wine-cup  has  been  quaifed  in  toast 
To  Hunyadi,  the  fallen  brave; 
For  his  gray  chief,  his  country's  boast,, 
Hot  tears  the  hero's  eyeballs  lave; 
Freely  the  burning  tear-drop  falls 
As  erst  his  blood  at  Belgrade's  walls. 

"Here's  to  my  good  old  chief's  young  son!"" 
Says  the  old  man,  "Long  live  the  king!" 
The  hunter  of  his  wine  tastes  none, 
His  cheek  the  warm  flush  reddening; 
"What  is  this,  wherefore  drink'st  not  thou? 
Up,  youth,  thy  father  follow  now! 

For  I  could  twice  thy  father  be, 
Worthy  is  he  I  pledge  in  wine; 
From  head  to  heel  a  noble  he, 
Nor  will  he  shame  his  noble  line!" 
Eising,  the  youth  his  cup  doth  raise, 
Moved  by  the  old  man's  earnest  praise. 

"Long  life  then  to  the  hero's  son, 
While  for  his  country  he  doth  stand; 
But  may  his  life  that  day  be  done 
When  he  forgets  his  fatherland. 
Better  no  king  than  one  who  reigns 
In  sloth  and  by  oppressive  pains!" 


62 


The  merriment  more  loud  doth  grow, 
In  jovial  speech  the  hours  pass. 
The  maid  doth  on  the  guest  bestow 
Admiring  looks,  and  thinks,  alas; 
"Who  is  he,  and  where  does  he  dwell?" 
Yet  fears  to  beg  him  that  he  tell. 

"Thee,  too,  fair  flower  of  the  wood. 
Thee,  too,  I  pledge  in  this  last  cup, 
Thy  huntsman  waits  thee,  if  God  should, 
"With  thy  gray  grandsire,  bring  thee  up. 
Where  in  proud  Buda's  mighty  fort 
I  can  be  found  in  Maty  as'  court!" 

He  speaks  and,  rising,  says  farewell; 
Outside  the  huntsman's  horn  doth  call; 
He  cannot  with  his  hosts  now  dwell 
In  spite  of  their  entreaties  all. 
"Do  not  forget  us;  come  once  more. 
Should  we  not  seek  you  out  before." 

Thus  modestly  fair  Helen  now 

Speaks,  on  the  threshold  standing  there, 

AndJ  kissing  her  upon  the  brow. 

He  goes  and  through  the  night  doth  fare; 

Still  is  the  night,  but,  ah,  no  rest 

Yisits  her  love-invaded  breast. 

III. 

Peterdi  and  his  grandchild  fair 
Now  go  to  visit  Buda's  fort;    ' 
The  gray  beard  marvels  everywhere 
To  witness  sights  of  new  import; 
The  yearning  girl  'mid  sighs  is  fain 
To  meet  the  huntsman  once  again. 

Great  is  the  crowd,  the  gala  high; 
From  triumphs  new  returns  the  king: 
From  wrathful  vengeance  he  draws  nigh, 
Which  at  Vienna  he  did  wring. 
A  thousand  eyes  expectant  wait; 
Fair  Helen's  face  grows  not  elate. 


—     63     — 

"''Where  is  our  char:iiing  stranger,  say? 
What  fortune  did  he  chance  to  meet? 
Does  he  return,  or,  far  away, 
Hunts  he  again  the  chamois  fleet?" 
She  asks  her  heart,  the  while,  in  turn. 
Her  cheek  doth  pale,  anon  doth  burn. 

'Mid  victory's  shouts  Ujlaki  comes, 
He  and  the  Gara.  friends  again; 
The  king  majestic  also  comes, 
All  the  land's  magnates  in  his  train. 
Old  Peterdi  his  guest  doth  see; 
"Long  life  to  him;  the  king,  'tis  he!" 

^'Lustre  and  blessing  or  his  life!" 
The  countless  voices  shout  around. 
An  hundredfold,  with  echoes  rife. 
The  hills  and  vales  and  ramparts  sound. 
'Than  any  marble  bust  more  white 
Silent  fair  Helen  views  the  sight. 

"Shall  we,  dear  child,  to  Matyas'  hall 
To  see  the  hunter  now  proceed? 
I  think  for  peace,  'tis  best  of  all 
Back  to  our  home  to  go  indeed!" 
Thus  speaks,  with  half-suspicious  pain. 
The  graybeard;  sad  they  turn  again. 

If  thou  hast  seen  a  blossom  fair 
Die  from  some  canker  hid  within, — 
Thus  beauteous  Helen  faded  there. 
Pained,  shrinking  from  the  loud  world's  din. 
Passion,  remembrance  sore,  hope  dead, 
Ever  are  her  companions  dread. 

The  brief  but  anguished  life  is  done: 
Fair  Helen  in  the  grave  is  laid. 
Like  lily-leaves  that,  one  by  one. 
In  purity  and  sadness  fade. — 
Once  more,  when  endlessly  they  rest, 
.Stands  in  the  house  their  kingly  guest! 


—        64:        — 

THE   SONG  FEOM  FOT.  ' 

FOTI    DAL. 

Upwaed  rise  within  the  cup 

Pearly  beads; 
Naught  can  stop  it,  as  each  globe 

Upward  speeds. 
Skyward  let  all  that  ascend 

Which  is  pure, 
Leaving  on  the  earth  beneath 

All  manure. 

Strength  and  force  our  body  gains 

When  we  dine, 
But  the  soul  gains  nourishment 

From  the  wine. 
Wine  and  spirit  still  were  friends 

Good  and  true. 
What  fish,  e'er  in  water  spawned, 

Famous  grew? 

Brimming  cups  make  love  more  sweet 

And  more  dear; 
All  the  gall  therein  I  drink 

Without  fear. 
Fairest  rosebud,  sweetest  dove. 

Laugh  not,  pray: 
If  thou  lov'st  me,  tri-une  God 

Bless  thee  may. 

For  thee  joyous  gleams  this  glass 

Of  bright  wine, 
Ardently  for  thee  beats  this 

Heart  of  mine. 
Pretty  maids  and  red  wine  are 

My  delight, 
And  o'er  my  dark  life  can  shed 

Pleasant  light. 

Friend  and  countryman,  I  ask, 

Art  thou  glad? 
Art  thou  filled  with  doleful  thoughts, . 

Sombrje,  sad? 


—    65    - 

Take  to  wine;  bot>  health  and  youth 

'T  will  restore: 
Heaven  for  us  no  other  cure 

Hath  in  store. 

Care  and  grief  sleep  like  a  child 

After  wine:  . 
For  cycles  was  the  Magyar's  fate 

Sad,  malign. 
Now  his  time  has  come  to  rise 

Up  again, 
And  his  former  glorious  state 

To  maintain. 

Wine  the  Magyar  always  quaffs — 

Which  is  fair: 
Wine  will  injure  none  who  drink 

With  due  care. 
Then  his  fatherland  he  toasts 

Joyously: 
O,  that  he  would  something  do, 

Land,  for  thee! 

Never  mind,  for  all  things  yet 

Will  come  right; 
Helping  thee  with  word  and  deed, 

All  will  fight. 
If  't  is  God's  wish,  as  our  own. 

We  no  more 
Will  disgrace  thee;  Hungary  we 

Must  restore! 

Up,  my  friends,  and  let  us  take 

One  good  drink! 
Care  and  trouble  perish  when 

Glasses  clink. 
For  our  sacred  country  now 

Raise  a  cheer! 
But,  when  called,  our  lives  we'll  yield 

Without  fear. 


66     — 

Our  beloved  King  is  first 

In  the  land: 
All  true  patriots  now  by  liim 

Firmly  stand. 
May  his  land's  success  to  him 

Pleasures  bring! 
Famed  and  happy  be  the  rule 

Of  our  King! 

Let  each  man  be  ever  true, 

A  Magyar, 
Whom  the  earth  bears,  o'er  whom  shines 

Sun,  moon,  star! 
Strong  in  love  and  calm  in  peace, 

Such  a  race 
Need  not  fear  and  bravely  can 

Perils  face! 

He's  a  traitor,  who,  my  land, 

Loves  thee  not! 
Shame  or  death  of  scoundrels  all 

Be  the  lot! 
Hear  not,  fairest  land,  such  boors 

On  thy  breast. 
Let  them  not  within  thy  bounds 

Ever  rest. 

As  the  seven  leaders  brave 

Shed  their  blood, 
When  before  the  nation  they, 

Swearing,  stood: 
So  now  flows  this  wine,  and,  by 

God  above, 
Let  us  swear  that  we  our  land 

Still  will  love! 

Let  each  hope  of  ours  a  prayer 

Be  for  thee, 
Oountry  dear;  and  for  thy  great 

Liberty ! 


67 


'To  thy  health  we  drink  this  glass 

Of  glad  wine; 
No  Magyar  to  drink  this  toast 

Can  decline. 

Peace,  dear  land,  shall  have  a  home 

On  thy  grounds; 
And  be  healed  for  aye  thy  sore 

Bleeding  wounds; 
And  thy  face,  from  ancient  grief 

Haggard  now. 
Soon  may,  after  tempest's  rage. 

Brightness  show! 

May  thy  children  dwell  in  love 

And  calm  peace, 
Here  may  wars  and  strifes,  we  pray. 

Ever  cease! 
May  our  land  be  mighty,  rich, 

Ever  free! 
Truth  and  justice,  laws  divine 

Here  decree! 

When  our  lives,  our  fortunes,  asks 

Our  dear  land, 
With  our  heart's  blood  let  us  meet 

The  demand; 
Proudly  claiming,  peace  or  war, 

Wliatso  come. 
^'We  repaid  thee  all  we  owed. 

Sacred  home!" 


L 


JOHN  ARANY, 


LADISLAUS   V. 

V.  LASZLO. 

The  night  is  dark  and  close, 
The  south- wind  fiercely  blows; 
O'er  Buda's  tower  high 
The  weather-cock,  doth  cry 
And  sharply  shriek  aloud. 

"Who's  there,  what's  that?   I  see!" 
"My  Lord,  my  King,*  prithee, 
Be  calm  and  sleep  in  peace, 
The  tempest  soon  will  cease 
That  stirs  thy  window-pane." 

The  clouds  will  burst,  it  seems, 
And  issue  flames  and  streams; 
And  from  the  iron  spout 
In  floods  the  rain  pours  out 
From  Buda's  towers  high. 

"Why  murmurs  then  this  band? 
Does  it  my  oath  demand? 
The  crowd.  Lord,  King,  naught  crave; 
All's  silent  as  the  grave;  '  * 

The  thunder  only  rolls." 

Hearken!  The  chain  and  ball 
From  off  the  captives  fall! 
And  each  one,  like  a  cloud 
Which  Buda's  walls  did  shroud. 
Himself  now  lowers  down. 

"Hunyad's  two  sons  espy! 
Their  fetters  break  and  fly — " 
"Fear  not,  my  Lord,  not  so! 
Laszlo  is  dead,  you  know 
The  boy  a  captive  still." 


—    69     — 

Beneath  the  fort's  high  wall, 
A  silent  crowd  and  small, 
Steal  quiet  as  the  grave. 
And  so  their  lives  do  save 
Kanizsa,  Kozgonyi. 

"Increase  the  guard  before 
Hunyadi  Maty  as'  door!" 
''Maty as  was  left  behind  ; 
No  captives  can  we  find 
It  seems  they  have  escaped." 

At  last  the  rain  has  ceased. 
The  storm's  rage  is  appeased, 
Over  the  Danube's  bright 
And  soft  calm  waves  the  light 
Of  myriad  stars'  array. 

"Leave  this  land  while  we  can, 
Safer's  Bohemian!" 
"Why  be  possessed  by  fear? 
All  things  are  calm  and  clear. 
Between  the  earth  and  sky." 

While  some  in  slumber  bide. 
The  fugitives  do  hide. 
If  a  leaf  stirs  they  fear 
That  spies  are  very  near, 
Do  Kanizsa,  Eozgony! 

"Say,  is  the  frontier  nigh? 
Slowly  the  moments  fly." 
"Now  we  have  crossed  it  o'er 
My  Lord,  and  with  us  bore 
Safely,  the  captive  boy." 

While  calm  the  sleeper  sleeps 
The  fugitive  upleaps. 
No  wind  is — yet  it  blows. 
No  cloud — yet  thunder  rose 
And  lightning  from  afar! 


\ 


—     70    — 

"My  true  Bohemian,  pray; 
Give  me  to  drink,  I  say." 
"Here  is  the  cooling  cup 
My  Lord,  King,  drink  it  up; 
It  quiets ....  as  the  grave." 

Now  vengeance  stays  its  hand; 
The  boy's  safe  in  this  land. 
And  here,  too,  in  this  soil. 

The  King  sleeps  after  toil 

The  prisoner  returns! 


CLAEA  ZACH. 

ZACH  KLaRA. 

The  garden  of  the  queen 
Blooms  over  night  all  green; 
Here  a  white  rose,  there  a  red  rose- 
Brown  maids  and  blonde  are  seen. 

"Dame  Queen,  my  sister  dear. 
Tore  heaven  I  pray  thee,  hear; 
This  loveliest  red  rose  of  thy  maids 
My  heart  I  would  hold  near." 

"Sick  is  my  heart  for  her. 
For  her  doth  beat  and  stir; 
If  I  should  die,  this  fairest  flower 
ath  caused  my  sepulchre." 

"Hear,  Casimir,  I  say 

I  cannot  give  away 

Her  for  a  hundred. — I  am  wrath,- 

Trouble  I  dread  to  day." 

"Now  I  must  wend  my  way 
At  early  mass  to  pray. 
If  thou  art  sick,  thy  heavy  head 
Here  on  my  cushion  lay." 


r 


—    71     — 

And  the  queen  go/ih  straight 
Unto  the  church  in  state. 
The  lovely  flowers,  her  virgins  fair^. 
Follow  and  on  her  wait. 

Fain  would  she  pray,  but,  lo 
She  cannot  now  do  so. 
Her  rosary  she  hath  forgot; 
Who  now  for  it  will  go? 

"Go,  bring  it,  Clara  dear, 
'Tis  to  my  cushion  near. 
Or  in  the  oratory  which 
My  daily  prayer  doth  hear." 

Clara  for  it  hath  been 

Gone  a  full  hour  I  ween: 

And  in  the  church,  while  she  doth  search^ 

Vainly  doth  wait  the  queen. 

She  Cometh  back  no  more 
Unto  the  virgin  corps, 
Rather  would  she  among  the  dead 
Lie  cold  and  shrouded  o'er. 

Eather  unto  the  tomb. 

Into  the  black  earth's  gloom; 

Than  in  her  grayhaired  father's  hall 

Would  she  her  place  resume. 

"My  child,  my  daughter,  say. 
What  trouble th  thee,  I  pray. 
Come  to  my  breast,  and  there  confide^ 
And  wipe  thy  tears  away." 

"Father  it  may  not  be; 

Ah,  what  shall  come  to  me! 

Let  me  embrace  thy  feet,  and  then 

Crush  me  out  utterly." 

The  noonbell's  strident  peal 
Calls  to  the  royal  meal: 
Just  as  Felician  goes  to  meet 
His  King,  but  not  to  kneel. 


—     72 

His  King  indeed  to  meet, 

But  not  with  him  to  eat. 

A  direful  vengeance  he  hath  vowed, 

His  sword  gleams  as  with  heat. 

^'O,  Queen  Elizabeth! 

I  come  to  seek  thy  death 

For  my  child's  wrong" — her  fingers  four 

Fall,  as  the  word  he  saith; 

^'For  mine,  thy  children  twain 
Louis  and  Andrew,  slain 
Shall  be!"  Gyulafi  stays 
The  sword  from  further  stain. 

"Quick  to  the  rescue,  men, 
Cselenyi  come!"  and  then 
Felician  soon  the  minions  round 
Seize  and  disarm  and  pen. 

"Thy  fingers  bleed  I  see, 

For  naught  this  shall  not  be! 

What  dost  thou  ask,  most  gracious  queen. 

For  this  hurt  done  to  thee?" 

"For  my  first  finger  there 

I  ask  his  daughter  fair. 

And  for  the  next  his  knightly  sons 

Dread  death  shall  be  my  care. 

Then  for  the  other  two 

His  son-in-law  shall  rue 

And  daughter;  in  his  race's  blood 

My  hands  I  will  imbrue." 

The  evil  days  draw  nigh; 
111  stars  gleam  in  the  sky; 
Protect  our  Magyar  fatherland 
From  ill,  O  God,  on  high! 


—     73     — 
CALL   TO   T^xiE   ORDEAL/ 

TETEMRE  HIVAS. 

In  Eadwan's  wood's  most  gloomy  part 
Benjamin  Barcz  lay  'neath  a  tree, 

A  poniard  pisrced  his  youthful  heart; 
Lo!  before  God,  'tis  plain  to  me 
Foul  traitor's  force  hath  murdered  thee. 

Home  to  his  own  ancestral  hall 

His  father  bears  his  son's  cold  clay; 

Unwashed,  uncovered  with  a  pall: 
On  the  plain  bier,  day  after  day. 
The  corpse  in  the  cool  palace  lay. 

As  guards  he  calls  four  halberdiers. 

"Watch  at  this  door  with  strictest  care! 
No  one  must  enter!  heed  no  tears 

Of  mother  or  of  sister  fair; 

To  brave  my  will  let  no  one  dare!" 

The  women,  in  their  own  dull  halls 

Wander  about,  their  grief  suppressed — 

While  he  unto  the  ordeal  calls 
All  he  suspects,  to  view  the  test 
Which  must  the  guilt  make  manifest. 

The  hall  with  black  is  shrouded  o'er; 
The  sun  no  radiance  seems  to  send; 

The  crucifix  is  placed  before 

The  corpse,  while  priest  and  sheriff  bend: 
The  yellow  tapers  soft  light  lend. 

"Let  now  the  dead  man's  foes  appear!" 
Calls  out  the  father,  but  in  vain: 

Those  whom  he  names  approach  the  bier; 
The  hands  of  none  increase  the  stain; 
He  is  not  here  who  Barcz  has  slain!" 

The  father  cries  in  accents  stern, 

"Vengeance  on  him  who  dared  to  kill; 

My  grave  suspicion  yet  must  burn. 
My  dearest  may  incur  it  still — 
Who  breathes  may -fear  my  anger's  will." 


74    — 

"Let  now  his  youthful  friends  appear." 
Proudly  steps  forward  many  a  knight. 

With  pain  they  view  the  hero's  bier 
Who  fell  not  in  the  open  fight — 
Yet  Barcz'  son  bleeds  not  in  their  sight. 

"Let  now  my  vassals,  old  and  young, 
In  order  pass  and  touch  the  dead; 

I  will,  must,  know  who  did  the  wrong!" 
All  pass,  and  burning  tears  they  shed — 
Still  at  no  touch  the  wound  has  bled. 

"Mother  and  maiden  sister  fair, 

Go  to  the  corpse,"  sounds  the  command. 

With  woeful  shrieks  is  filled  the  air, 
The  mother's  grief  is  touching,  grand — 
But  the  open  w^ound  will  not  expand. 

At  length  there  comes  his  darling  bride. 
Fair  Abigail,  he  loved  so  well; 

She  sees  the  dirk,  her  eyes  glare  wide, 
She  stands  as  stricken  by  a  spell — 
The  flowing  blood  her  guilt  doth  tell. 

In  tears  or  cries  she  does  not  bow; 
Her  two  hands  only  press  her  brain. 

What  sudden  thought  appals  her  now? 
It  seems  her  heart- would  break  in  twain.- 
"Girl,  thou  this  youth  hast  foully  slain!" 

Tis  told  her  twice,  but  she  is  still. 
As  if  bewitched;  then  utters  slow: 

"Benjamin  Barcz  I  did  not  kill. 

God  and  his  angels  hear  me,  though 
I  gave  the  dirk  that  dealt  the  blow." 

"My  heart  in  truth  he  did  possess; 

He  should  have  known  it;  but,  ah,  woe!. 

He  still  besought  another  'yes,' 
'Or  unto  deathl'll  freely  go;'  " 
"Here,  take  my  dirk,  and  end  it  so!" 


—    75    — 

Wildly  the  dirk  sho  snatches  forth 
She  laughs  and  weeps,  the  steel  gleams  bright, 

Her  eyes  to  glowing  fire  give  birth. 
Like  a  wild  hawk  she  screams  outright. 
None  stay  her  in  her  speedy  flight. 

And  through  the  village  streets  so  long, 
Dancing  she  sings  from  house  to  house. 

"There  was  a  maid" — thus  runs  her  song — 
"Who  dealt  in  such  way  with  her  spouse,.. 
As  the  cat  trifles  with  the  mouse." 


MIDNIGHT   DUELL. 

EJFELI  PARE  A  J. 

Bende,  the  hero,  holds  his  nuptial  feast. 
The  first  day  this;  it  lasts  for  weeks  at  least. 

The  music  plays,  trumpet  and  bugle  sound; 
Dancers  blithely  move  and  fast, 
Bende  calls:  "This  cup  's  the  last! 

My  dry,  parched  lips  shall  soon  have  found 

Lips  where  moist  sweets  abound!" 

The  hero  by  the  bridesmaids  straight  is  led 
Unto  the  chamber  where  these  sweets  are  spread: 

Silence  and  gloom  the  castle-halls  endow. 
Lo!  by  the  couch  a  steel-clad  knight 
Standeth,  whom  Bende  knows  by  sight, 

While,  from  his  vizor,  o'er  his  brow 

Weird,  blue  light  falleth  now. 

"Bende,  I  come  to  fight  thee  now  once  more, 
I  was  the  victor,  and  not  thou,  before. 

Let  us  begin  anew;  the  bout  was  rough; 
Ha,  ha,  again  thy  armor  don. 
And  servile  hirelings  trust  not  on. 

This  maid  is  surely  prize  enough. 

To  make  our  struggles  tough." 


76    — 

The  knight  doth  rise — "What,  ho!    quick  bring  my 

sword 
And  harness!"    "Whither  goest  thou,  sweet  Lord?" 

"To  fight  for  thee!"     Soon  in  the  armory  hall 
The  fight  is  heard, — the  weapons'  clash, 
The  sound  as  they  in  conflict  dash. 

Cries,  groans  and  curses  that  appal. 

And  foemen's  feet  that  fall. 

The  fair  bride  cannot  even  close  her  eyes; 
Alarmed  about  her  spouse,  she  doth  arise. 

And  with  her  trembling  hands  a  lamp  doth  light, 
Then  goeth  forth  her  lord  to  seek 
And,  by  his  side,  till  dawn  doth  shriek. 

Where,  as  though  dead,  in  grievous  plight. 

He  lieth  through  the  night. 

Bende,  the  hero,  holds  his  nuptial  feast. 
The  second  day  of  mirth  has  almost  ceased. 

The  music  sounds,  the  wine  cup  passeth  free, 
Bende  doth  reckless  seem  and  gay; 
He  dances,  drinks,  in  a  forced  way; 

And  the  fair  bride — what  thinketh  she? — 

"Shall  this  like  yest'reen  be?" 

That  night  the  hero  drinks  of  wine  too  deep 
And  by  his  men  is  borne  to  heavy  sleep; 

His  pretty  bride  doth  fear  his  couch  to  share. 
But,  lest  her  secret  she  disclose. 
Straight  to  an  extra  couch  she  goes. 

And  in  her  fear  she  breatheth  there,- 

Crossing  herself,  a  prayer. 

Bende  awakes  at  midnight,  sober,  pale; 
There  in  the  door  a  knight  stands,  clad  in  nail. 

"Ha,  Eobogany!" — Eeluctantly  he  cried, 
"Come,  thou  destroyer  of  my  love, 
To  fight,  the  hour  now  strikes  above; 

Till  thou  hast  conquered  me,  thy  bride 

Lieth  not  by  thy  side." 


—    77     — 

Again  that  night  is  hear^  a  fearful  fight, 
And  Bende  seemeth  dead  at  morning  light, 

Nor  can  he  rise  till  noon-day  waxeth  late; 
Till,  when  arrived  hath  every  guest. 
Of  him  his  servants  go  in  quest; — 
[j  ^  "Where  art  thou,  lord?  the  people  wait; 

Haste  to  the  Banquet  straight." 

Bende,  the  hero,  holds  his  nuptial  feast. 
But  on  this  third  day  sadness  hath  increased; 

It  seems  as  if  the  music  mirth  outran. 
The  dance  drags  wearily  and  slow. 
Most  of  the  guests  make  speed  to  go: 

Never  a  nuptial  feast  began 

In  blood,  without  God's  ban. 

The  kindred  of  the  pair,  a  bishop  one. 

Ask  what  hath  happened,  what  misdeed  been^done; 

Bende  is  silent,  but  his  bride  doth  weep, 
Shakes  like  a  dewdrop  in  storm-stress, 
Confesseth  she  dare  not  confess. 

Then,  when  all  else  are  gunk  in  sleep, 

Biddeth  the  guard  watch  keep. 

Unto  the  armory  then,  a  strong  guard  haste; 
And  Bende  laughs — "The  honey  I  will  taste." 

And  hurries  late  unto  his  lady's  bower. 
Just  as  the  barn-yard*  chanticlere 
His  second  summons  soundeth  near. 

And  when  above,  from  the  high  tower, 

ToUeth  the  midnight  hour. 

"Knight  Bende,  come;  this  last  bout  now  maintain, 
To  morrow  sees  thy  nuptial  bonds  in  twain: 

So  once  more  come,  and  if  my  dying  groan 
Thou  hearest  not,  then  will  I  slay 
Thee  and  thy  soul  most  sure,  I  say. 

Let  the  false  one  her  sins  atone. 

And  all  her  life  bemoan." 


78 


Bende,  the  hero,  with  his  eyes  aglow 
Hastily  to  the  armory  doth  go, 

And  there  a  fearful  sight  the  guards  descry; 
Their  Master  raves;  with  naked  blade 
The  air  he  pierces,  smites  a  shade. 

He  yells  and  curses;  three  men  die. 

Who  to  control  him  try. 

Chained  in  a  dungeon,  out  of  sight, 
Bende  doth  still  shriek,  rave  and  fight; 

The  fair  bride  wedded  none  shall  ever  see: 
"The  first  I  was  not  worthy  of. 
The  next  did  not  deserve  my  love: 

Lord  Bishop,  may  it  fall  to  me. 

One  of  Christ's  brides  to  be." 


THE   HEEO   BOK 

BOR  VITEZ. 

The  sun  hath  almost  run  his  course; 
Over  hill  and  vale  is  shade — 
Hero  Bor  bestrides  his  horse, 
"Farewell,  sweet  and  pretty  maid." 

Over  hill  and  vale  is  shade. 
Chilly  winds  the  dry  twigs  sway; 
"Farewell  sweet  and  pretty  maid, 
Hero  Bor  is  far  away." 

Chilly  winds  the  dry  twigs  sway, 
Lo!  a  singing  lark  is  near. 
Hero  Bor  is  far  away. 
Freely  flows  the  maiden's  tear. 

Lo!  a  singing  lark  is  near. 
Whither  goes  it,  where  has  fled? 
Freely  flows  the  maiden's  tear; 
Saith  the  father:  "Thou  must  wed." 


—     79    — 
\ 
Wliitlier  goes  it,  where  has  fled? 
O'er  the  wood  hath  crept  the  night; 
Saith  the  father:  "Thou  must  wed!" 
But  the  maiden  flees  troth-plight. 

O'er  the  wood  hath  crept  the  night; 
Ghastly  looks  each  bush  and  tree; 
But  the  maiden  flees  troth-plight, 
Hero  Bor  said:  "Come  with  me!" 

Ghastly  looks  each  bush  and  tree. 
Life,  it  seems,  the  scene  invades. 
Hero  Bor  said:   "Come  with  me. 
Spirit  knight  from  land  of  shades." 

Life,  it  seems,  the  scene  invades, 
Spirit  lips  now  chant  a  song. 
"Spirit  knight  from  land  of  shades. 
My  dear  spouse,  take  me  along." 

Spirit  lips  now  chant  a  song, 
A  long  bridal  train  draws  near. 
"My  dear  spouse,  take  me  along. 
Thou  mad'st  oath  to  wed  me,  dear." 


A  long  bridal  train  draws  near 
Now  a  ruined  church  they  pass: 
"Thou  mad'st  oath  to  wed  me,  dear: 
All  are  meet  for  holy  mass." 

Now  a  ruined  church  they  pass, 
Brightly  lit  as  e'er  before; 
All  are  meet  for  holy  mass, 
Festive  robes  the  dead  priest  wore. 

Brightly  lit  as  e'er  before. 
Brightly  gleam  a  thousand  lights: 
Festive  robes  the  dead  priest  wore, 
"Hand  in  hand,"  the  vow  unites. 

Brightly  gleam  a  thousand  lights. 
Darkness  rests  o'er  hill  and  vale; 
"Hand  in  hand,"  the  vow  unites. 
The  bride's  face  is  deadly  pale. 


./ 


—    80    — 

Darkness  rests  o'er  hill  and  vale, 
An  owl  shrieketh  in  dismay, 
The  bride's  face  is  deadly  pale — 
In  the  ruins  dead  she  lay. 


THE    MINSTEEL'S   SOEKOW. 

A  KOLTO  BXJJA. 

A  minstrel  mused  one  gloomy  night 
Over  his  sorrows  infinite. 

In  his  dark  room  alone; 
Mute  as  a  coffin  lies  his  lyre. 
His  heart  is  sad  and  filled  with  ire, 

Upon  his  lute  lies  prone. 

Around  the  poet  now  arise 
Euins  of  many  broken  sighs. 

Plaintive  and  wing-clipped  songs. 
"While,  'mid  these  ruins  walks  his  soul, 
His  thoughts  amid  sad  memories  roll — 

One  thought  the  other  throngs. 

Say,  son  of  song,  why  art  thou  mute. 
Why  touchest  not  thy  charming  lute? 

Thou  wert  not  so  before. 
Why  is  thy  heart  with  sadness  filled? 
The  charms  of  life  thy  soul  once  thrilFd, 

Bard,  lovest  thou  no  more? 

Dost  thou  not  loftily  rejoice 

When  loud  resounds  the  silvery  voice 

Of  nature  in  the  spring? 
When  tree-tops  in  the  zephyrs  sigh. 
When  streamlets'  waves  flow  gently  by, 

Dost  thou  know  what  they  bring? 

The  rising  or  the  setting  sun 
That  oft  thy  admiration  won. 

Why  does  thy  song  not  hail? 
Has  night  got  no  more  charm  for  thee? 
Writest  thou  not  an  elegy 

On  moon  and  nightingale? 


—     81     — 
\ 
"Leave  me  to  yearnings  silently: 
All!  that  my  soul  were  ever  free 

Of  love,  and  void  of  song. 
But,  as  the  bush  of  Moses  burned. 
The  bard's  heart  must  be  ever  turned 
To  love  and  passion  strong." 

"The  spring  comes  and  the  flowers  grow; 
'Tis  all  from  heroes'  dust  below 

That  spring  brings  back  to  sight; 
The  thousand  sighs  from  tops  of  trees, 
The  mournful  splash  of  streams  and  seas 

To  understand  is  light." 

"The  sun  which  dawns  and  sets  again 
Does  it  for  us  secure,  attain 

Pleasures  and  hopes  anew? 
The  night,  its  loneliness  e'en  lost. 
Enlivened  is  with  shade  and  ghost 

Which  it  with  life  imbue. 

Say,  Minstrel,  if  thy  heart  is  filled 

With  grief,  which  pain  has  almost  chilled. 

Why  dost  thou  still  keep  mute? 
Where  sorrow  and  where  sadness  dwell. 
The  sweetest  songs  did  evar  swell; 

Sad  hearts  are  like  a  lute. 

"How  shall  thy  lyre,  then,  tuneful  sing 
If  weirdest  agonies  touch  the  string, 

Instead  of  grief  profound? 
If  thou  with  brutish  force  wilt  knock 
Thy  lute  against  a  mountain-rock 

No  harmonies  resound." 

Art  thou  the  child  of  coward  time. 

Is  thy  soul  filled  with  thoughts  sublime, 

But  lacking  themes  withal? 
The  minstrel's  noblest  mission  is 
To  rouse  and  wake  our  energies, 

Mankind  to  duty  call! 


—    82    — 

"Not  in  a  timid  age  lived  I, 

I  witnessed  much,  sublime  and  liigli, 

And  understood  it  well: 
The  loft  J  songs  the  minstrels  sang 
Of  deeds  on  which  whole  worlds'  fates  hang,. 

Which  history  doth  tell: 

"Marathon's  victory  I  saw  won, 

The  deeds  by  Sparta's  daughters  done. 

Saw  Xerxes'  giant  might; 
Leonidas,  the  hero  true, 
The  minstrel  Tyrtneus  I  knew 

With  song  enflame  to  fight." 

What  marvel!  yet  thy  sweet  lute-strings 
Speak  not  of  higher,  nobler  things 

At  Victory's  great  feast? 
When  past  the  battle's  rage  and  zest, 
When  heroes  on  soft  myrtles  rest. 

Sweet  songs  have  still  increased! 

'The  battle  o'er;  no  joyous  feast 
Exists  which  minstrels  praise  the  least 

With  song  and  cup,  I  wot. 
In  Cyprus'  mist  the  heroes  throng 
Hear  not  his  glorifying  song 

They  understand  him  not. 

— He  singeth  not.  In  deep  dismay 
His  voiceless  lute  be  casts  away; 

In  agony  he  cries: 
"Ye  mighty  bards  great  and  sublime^ 
Ye  demigods  of  former  time. 

Whom  nations  idolize! 

"To  live  in  brilliant,  glorious  days — 
Scenes  to  remember,  hopes  to  raise 

Was  your  most  happy  share. 
To  share  the  heroes'  laurel  wreath 
Or  o'er  their  graves  to  boldly  breathe 

Freedom's  inspiring  air; 


—     83     — 

\ 
"The  wheels  of  time  which  roll  so  fast 

Into  the  mist  of  the  dark  past, 

To  clog  with  one  sweet  air; 
The  history  of  yesterday 
And  of  to  day,  through  mellow  lay. 

To  suffer  perish  ne'er: 

All  this  was  yours;  upon  a  weak 

Faint  lute  of  grand,  strong  themes  to  speak 

This  all  was  given  to  you. 
The  braves  who  were  in  battle  slain 
With  Gods  to  raise  to  one  high  plane, 

Bring  them  to  life  anew: 

And  yours  it  was,  that,  o'er  the  grave 
Of  those  who  died,  new  life  you  gave, 

Unto  a  stronger  race. 
And,  like  the  old  bard  Amphion, 
Your  songs  brought  life  to  tree  and  stone 

And  moved  a  populace. 

"But  I,  alas!  an  epoch's  days 
Behold  which  constantly  decays. 

Is  void  of  passions  strong. 
'Tis  late  to  hope  once  more  to  see 
Bloom  once  again  the  fallen  tree 

Or  cheer  it  with  my  song!" 


MISTKESS   AGNES, 

\  AGNES  ASSZOKY. 

Mistress  Agnes  in  the  streamlet 
Washeth  well  her  linen  sheet; 
Almost  is  the  blood-stained  cover 
Borne  off  by  the  water's  fleet. 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

"Mistress  Agnes,  what  thing  wash  you?'^ 
Boys  now  ask  her  from  the  street. 
"Children  go  away,  keep  quiet; 
Chicken's  blood  hath  stained  my  sheet. '^ 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 


—     84     — 

Neighboring  women  then  come  asking: 
"Where's  thy  husband,  Agnes,  say?" 
"Why,  my  dears,  at  home  he  sleepeth; 
Don't  go  in -and  wake  him,  pray." 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

"Mistress  Agnes,"  says  the  sheriff, 
"Come  to  prison  now  with  me." 
"O,  my  dove,  I  cannot  go  till 
From  all  stains  this  sheet  is  free." 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

Deep's  the  prison,  one  ray  only 
To  the  darkness  bringeth  light; 
This  one  gleam  its  day  illumines; 
'Ghosts  and  visions  crowd  the  night. 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

All  day  long  poor  Mistress  Agnes 
•Opposite  this  one  ray  sits; 
Looks  and  glares  at  it  unceasing, 
As  before  her  eyes  it  flits. 

Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

For,  wiiene'er  she  looketh  elsewhere. 
Ghosts  appear  before  her  eyes; 
Did  this  one  ray  not  console  her 
Sure,  she  thinks,  her  reason  flies. 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

In  the  course  of  time  her  prison 
Opened  is,  and  she  is  led 
To  the  court;  before  the  judges 
Stands  she  without  fear  or  dread. 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

She  is  dressed  with  such  precision 
One  might  even  think  her  vain. 
Even  her  hair  is  smoothed  and  plaited 
Lest  they  think  she  is  insane. 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 


-*85 


In  the  hall  around  the  table 
Sit  the  judges  in  concern, 
Full  of  pity  they  regard  her; 
None  is  angry,  none  too  stern. 
.  Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

"Child,  what  hast  thou  done?  Come,  tell  us,,. 
Grave's  the  charge  against  thee  pressed. 
He,  thy  lover,  who  committed 
This  fell  crime,  hath  now  confessed." 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

"He  will  hang  at  noon  to-morrow. 
Since  thy  husband  he  hath  killed; 
And,  for  thy  part,  a  life-prisoner 
Thou  shalt  be;  the  court  hath  willed." 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

Mistress  Agnes,  seeking  clearness, 
Striveth  to  collect  her  mind; 
Hears  the  voice  and  knows  the  sentence. 
Clear  of  brain  herself  doth  find. 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

What  they  say  about  her  husband 
She  cannot  quite  comprehend. 
Only  knoweth  well  that  homeward 
More  her  way  she  may  not  wend. 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

Forthwith  she  commences  weeping, 
Free  her  tears  flow  as  a  shower; 
Like  the  wet  from  swans  down  rollings 
Dew-drops  from  a  lilac  flower. 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

"O,  dear  Sirs  and  Excellencies, 
Look  to  God,  I  pray  of  you; 
I  cannot  remain  in  prison, 
I  have  work  at  home  to  do." 

Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 


—     86     - 

"For  a  stain  is  on  my  linen, 
Blood  that  I  must  wash  away — 
God!  if  I  should  fail  to  do  it, 
Dread  things  to  me  happen  may." 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

Then,  at  this  appeal,  the  judges 
At  each  other  look  aghast. 
Silent  all  and  mute  their  voices, 
By  their  eyes  the  die  is  cast. 

Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

^'Thou  art  free,  go  home,  poor  woman, 
Go  and  wash  thy  linen  sheet, 
"Wash  it  clean  and  may  God  strengthen. 
And  with  mercy  thee  entreat!" 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

And  poor  Agnes  in  the  streamlet 
Washeth  well  her  linen  sheet; 
Almost  is  her  now  clean  cover 
Borne  off  by  the  water's  fleet. 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

Snow-white  long  time  is  her  linen; 
No  trace  in  it  of  blood-stain; 
Yet  poor  Agnes  ever  sees  it, 
Blood-red  still  she  sees  it  plain. 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

From  the  early  dawn  till  evening 
In  the  stream  she  laves  her  sheet. 
Waves  may  sway  her  frail-grown  figure, 
Winds  her  gray,  once  black,  locks  greet. 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

Even  in  the  night  by  moonlight 
She  is  ever  at  her  post. 
At  the  streamlet's  bank  still  washing — 
There  she  stands,  a  river-ghost. 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 


'—     87     — 

"Thus,  from  year's  end  unto  year's  end, 
Winter,  summer  brings  no  ease, 
Now  from  burning  heat  she  suffers. 
Now  the  chill  winds  make  her  freeze. 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

On  her  head  has  come  the  winter. 
Gone  her  beauty  is  and  grace. 
Bent  and  broken;  full  of  wrinkles 
Now  is  her  once  beauteous  face. 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 

Mistress  Agnes  in  the  streamlet 
Washeth  well  her  ragged  sheet. 
Almost  are  her  cover's  remnants 
Borne  off  by  the  water's  fleet. 
Father  of  mercy,  leave  me  not! 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  KAINBOW. 

A  GYEKMEK  ES  A  SZIVARVANY. 

One  phase  of  heaven  in  grievance  wept. 

The  other  laughed  in  glee; 

A  double  rainbow  spanned  the  land 

As  if  from  sea  to  sea. 

Its  gleam  against  the  cloudy  sky 

Was  noticed  by  a  child, 

A  dreamy,  winsome,  blonde-haired  boy 

With  wistful  eyes  and  mild. 

■■"0,  what  a  splendid  bridge  is  yon, 
A  heavenly  bridge!"  he  thought; 
"Methinks  the  angels  tread  it  now. 
Whom  I  so  long  have  sought! 
Yes,  I  will  run  and  &ee  them  there;" 
He  cried,  the  rainbow's  charm 
Moving  him.   "Angels  surely  can 
Do  little  boys  no  harm!" 


—    88     — 

"It  cannot  be  so  far  away, 
'Tis  behind  yon  great  tree; 
Before  the  evening  has  set  in 
At  heaven's  gold  gate  I'll  be. 
O,  God,  how  beautiful  must  be 
Thy  paradise  within! 
O,  God,  if  only  into  heaven 
A  brief  look  I  could  v/in!" 

So  saying,  he  sets  out  to  run. 

And  soon  is  far  away; 

His  anxious  mother  calls  to  him; 

He  hears  not,  will  not  stay: 

An  hundred  flowers  call  to  him, 

"Sit  down,  thou  little  boy," 

The  birds  say  "we  will  sing  to  thee.*' 

He  hears  not  their  decoy. 

So  slippery  is  the  path,  he  falls. 

But  soon  doth  rise  again; 

Thorns  tear  his  dress  and  fain  would  tr} 

To  hold  him  back  in  vain. 

And  then  another  barrier  comes 

Before  him,  'tis  the  creek: 

This  too  he  crosses,  on  he  runs; 

He  is  not  tired  or  weak. 

He  from  the  creek  does  not  recoil. 

Heeds  not  the  slippery  way. 

He  stops  not  at  the  wild,  rude  thorns,, 

On,  on,  without  delay! 

Pleasure  or  danger  stop  him  not. 

Though  be  encounters  each: 

Up  to  the  rainbow  still  he  looks. 

That  goal  he  fain  would  reach. 

Travelers,  peasants,  passing,  hail— 
"Lo!  stop  thou  little  one; 
Tell  us  what  is  thy  urgent  haste 
Where  dost  thou  quickly  run?" 


89 


"O,"  lie  replies,  but,  hurrying  on, 
Kegards  not  those  who  ask — 
"To  reach  that  bridge  and  to  return 
Ere  evening,  is  my  task." 

"O,  foolish  child!  where  is  that  bridge?! 

Thy  race  had  better  cease; 

A  rainbow  'tis,  the  ends  of  which 

Arch  over  distant  seas. 

The  empty  clouds  it  fills  anew 

With  water,  bringing  rain. 

But,  if  you  disbelieve  us  now, 

Eun  on,  'twill  all  be  vain." 

"Be  it  a  rainbow  or  a  bridge, 

Reach  it  I  must  ere  night!" 

Thus  said  the  boy,  and  on  he  runs. 

Viewing  the  lovely  sight. 

And  now  a  bushy  by-path  leads 

Into  the  forest-glade. 

Where  it  would  seem  that,  for  to-day, 

Nature  her  rest  hath  made. 

A  rustle  here,  a  whisper  there. 

Mystery  all  around. 

Something  e'en  snatches  off  his  cap, 

Magic  doth  here  abound! 

Gray,  heavy  boughs  fall  in  his  way. 

But  tireless  on  goes  he. 

He  sees  the  charming  rainbow  shine 

Bright  above  bush  and  tree. 

And  pilgrims  meet  him  who  inquire 
His  quest;  he  answers  fair: 
"O  little  fool,  'tis  useless  quite; 
None  ever  may  get  there. 
Many  and  divers  tales  are  told 
Of  Heaven's  prismatic  bow. 
But  what  it  is  none  of  us  all — 
A  crowd — can  say  'I  know.'  " 


—     90     — 

But  still  the  boy  is  not  content; 
"I  want  to  know,"  he  cries; 
Leaving  the  wood  behind,  he  gains 
The  hill  and  on  he  flies. 
He  falls,  he  wounds  his  little  feet, 
But  nothing  stops  him  now, 
Until,  exhausted  quite,  he  falls 
Beaching  the  mountain's  brow. 

Even  when,  exhausted,  lying  there 

With  pains  and  aches  that  tire. 

He  casts  a  glance  at  Heaven's  arch. 

Yearning  and  full  of  fire. 

The  rainbow  now  begins  to  lose 

The  splendor  of  its  ray; 

Slowly  more  dim  and  vague  it  grows. 

Turns  gray  and  dies  away. 

"O,  golden  bridge  or  splendid  arch!" 

Sounds  the  boy's  piteous  cry, 

"'I  love  thee,  whatsoe'er  thou  art; 

Leave  me  not,  do  not  fly! 

If  I  may  not,  like  angels,  walk 

O'er  you  to  Heaven's  dome, 

Let  me  your  glory  see  until 

I  reach  my  final  home." 

By  an  old  hermit  this  is  heard, 

With  age  and  care  weighed  down: 

A  long  gray  beard  flows  o'er  his  chest. 

White  locks  adorn  his  crown. 

^'What  ails  thy  mind,  what  ails  thy  heart. 

What  ails  thee,  little  wsiiP. 

Why  dost  thou  wish,  being  so  young. 

So  soon  to  reach  thy  grave?" 

"Thy  heart's  desire  and  earnest  wish 
Lies  in  a  realm  unknown; 
Naught  but  an  empty  shape  it  is, 
A  fairy  dream  alone: 


—    91     — 

A  ray  'tis  of  the  sun's  bright  eye, 
Which  doth  victorious  fall, 
Breaking  through  clouds  and  showing  us 
God's  glory;  that  is  all." 

And  the  old  sage  did  further  teach 

The  little  boy  his  lore. 

Taught  him  the  wisdom  which  unlocks 

Nature's  most  secret  door. 

Full  of  compassion  then  he  took 

The  lad  into  his  care, 

And  to  his  parents  safe  returned 

Their  boy  with  golden  hair. 

And  afterward  the  boy  would  view 
Full  oft  the  golden  bow; 
Always,  beholding  it,  his  heart 
Would  melt  in  tears  and  glow, 
That  it  was  but  a  picture  void. 
No  bridge  into  the  sky, 
That  it  was  but  a  fairy  dream 
Caused  him  at  times  to  cry. 


JOSEPH  EOTVOS. 

FAEEWELL. 

BUCSU. 

Land  of  the  brave;  my  country  dear,  farewell! 
Goodbye  to  valleys  deep,  to  mountains  high! 
Land  of  my  hopes,  and  where  my  sorrows  dwell, 
I  leave  thee  now — Farewell!   Goodbye!  Goobye! 
And  if,  my  dear  land,  I  return  to  thee. 
May  thy  sons  through  thy  bounds  contented  be. 

Not  like  to  Switzerland's  high,  snow- clad  hills. 
No,  not  like  these,  the  mountain-peaks  thou  hast; 
And  fairer  be  Provencal  plains  and  rills 
Than  are  thy  vales  and  cornfields  rich  and  vast: 
Summit  or  plain,  what  are  they  all  to  me? 
My  Fatherland,  I  long,  I  live  for  thee! 


-     92     — 

One  treasure  Heaven  cloth  give  to  every  land 
And  nations  guard  the  same  with  jealous  care. 
France  proudly  names  her  Emperor  the  grand,. 
Eome  boasts  antiquities  renowned  and  rare. 
Of  classic. ruins  is  famed  Hellas  vain; 
My  country,  thou  hast  but  a  hallowed  pain. 

Quiet  now  reigns  upon  the  Eakos'  plain. 

Too  long  the  Magyar  silent  is,  alas! 

The  fathers'  traces  fade  away  and  wane. 

The  winds  spread  over  them  fresh  sand  and  grass; 

Silent  expands  the  field!  Our  trembling  heart 

And  silent  tear  proclaim  how  great  thou  art. 

And  Buda  must  in  sorrow  now  complain. 
No  more  does  she  of  fame  and  glory  boast: 
A  graveyard  of  the  land  she  must  remain 
Reminding  us  of  all  my  country  lost. 
Long  before  time  destroyed  her  ancient  fort 
Her  crumbling  stones  heroic  deeds  report. 

And  ancient  Mohacs  stands,  and  higher  grows 
The  wheat  upon  her  fields,  the  grass  more  green;. 
Their  roots  spring  from  the  dust  of  dead  heroes 
Whose  blood  the  irrigating  dew  has  been. 
No  stone  shows  where  the  patriots  were  slain. 
The  silent  field  filleth  our  heart  with  pain. 

So  long  as  on  the  Danube's  silver  face 

A  Magyar's  eye  will  gaze,  upon  her  bank 

Will  live  one  of  the  sturdy  Magyar  race. 

So  long  vibrate  our  hearts  with  sorrow's  pang. 

Pray  tell  me,  Danube  old,  that  floweth  here. 

Art  thou  a  stream?     Art  thou  my  country's  tear?: 

I  love  thee  in  thy  hallowed,  silent  grief, — 
Unbounded  is  my  love,  my  land,  for  thee! 
Thou  art  my  heart's  most  cherished  fond  belief. 
Though  stricken  down  with  woe  and  misery. 
Cheer  up!  Thy  hope  's  the  future  most  supreme^ 
Soon  to  dawn  o'er  thee  in  a  golden  gleam. 


—     93     — 

And  now,  goodbye!   Farewell,  thou  blessed  spot, 

Farewell,  forever  fare  thee  well!  I  go! 

Whether  again  't  will  be  my  blissful  lot 

To  see  thee  happy — Well,  who  is  to  know? 

And  if,  my  dear  land,  I  return  to  thee, 

May  thy  sons  through  thy  bounds  contented  be! 


MY   LAST   WILL. 

VEGREX1>ELET. 

When  I  shall  once  have  trod 
My  clod-filled  path  of  life; 
And  in  the  tomb  am  laid. 
Where  is  an  end  of  strife. 

Eaise  not  a  marble  dome 
To  keep  alive  my  name; 
The  triumph  of  my  thoughts 
Will  then  assure  my  fame. 

And  if  you  pass  the  spot, 
Where  in  repose  I  lie. 
Then  sing  above  my  grave 
A  chant  most  sweet  and  high. 

A  stirring  Magyar  song! 
That  fills  the  soul  with  fire. 
Beneath  my  verdant  grave 
Its  sound  will  me  inspire. 

Then  drop  a  sentient  tear, 
After  the  song  is  through: 
Give  to  the  bard  the  song, 
The  tear  the  lover  true. 


—     94     — 
THE   FEOZEN   CHILD. 

A  MEGFAGYOTT  GYERMEK. 

'Tis  late  and  cold;  who  totters  there 
Yet  in  the  graveyard  lone'^ 
Mute  is  the  earth  and,  long  ago, 
The  sun  to  rest  has  gone. 

An  orphan  child  it  is,  whose  heart 
Sorrow  and  pain  make  sore, 
For  she  who  loved  him  dearly  once, 
Alas,  will  rise  no  more. 

The  child  kneels  at  his  mother's  tomb. 
His  tears  the  grave  bedew: 
"O,  my  beloved  mother,  thou 
Wast  ever  kind  and  true!" 

"Since  they  entombed  thee  dead  for  aye 
Are  all  my  joy  and  bliss; 
None  in  the  village  offers  now 
Thy  child  a  loving  kiss." 

"And  no  one  tells  me  now;  'my  child; 
To  me  how  dear  thou  art!' 
And  cold  and  hunger  give  me  pain: 
I  am  so  sick  at  heart!" 

"O,  that  I  could  escape  the  storm, 
Find  rest  beneath  this  grave! 
The  winter  is  so  fierce  to  me. 
To  me,  poor  outcast  waif."    * 

The  child  in  agony  laments; 
Fierce  is  the  north's  cold  breeze. 
While  in  the  tempest  die  his  moans. 
His  tears  to  crystals  freeze. 

And,  shivering  from  the  cold,  he  stares 
Around  with  icy  face. 
Terror  and  fright  come  over  him. 
He  feareth  now  the  place. 


95 


For  dread  and  quiet  are  the  graves; 
Horror  glares  in  his  eye, 
The  wind  with  force  sways  bough  and  twig^. 
And  snow  falls  from  the  sky. 

He  tries  to  rise,  but  is  too  weak. 
Falls  back  upon  the  grave 
Of  the  beloved  one  who  to  him 
Life  and  all  pleasures  gave. 

But  see!  The  child  is  happy  now, 
He  feels  both  light  and  free, 
For  sleep  has  brought  to  him  a  friend 
To  banish  misery. 

His  pale  lips  smile,  his  heart  doth  seem 
To  throb  with  gleeful  joy; 
For  gone  to  his  eternal  rest 
Is  the  poor  orphan  boy! 


JOHN  GARAY. 


KONT. 

Thirty  knights  towards  Buda  march. 

Quite  prepared  to  die  are  all, 
And  in  front  of  them  there  strides 

Kont,  the  hero,  strong  and  tall. 

Heroes  they  and  noble  men, 
Patriots  striving  to  be  free; 

Their  conspiracy  betrayed 
By  the  recreant  Vajdafi. 

Before  Buda's  angry  King 

Calmly,  proudly,  there  they  stand; 
In  their  eyes  resentment  glows 

And  the  power  of  sinews  grand. 


96 


From  his  throne  the  haughty  King 
Utters  wrathful  words  like  these — 

"Bloody  traitors,  straightway  fall 
Here  before  me  on  your  knees!" 

In  revenge  and  ire  he  spoke; 

Each  then  scanned  his  comrade's  face, 
Till  the  thirty  all  to  Kont 

Questioning  glances  did  retrace. 

And  he  cries:  "Not  so,  O  King!" 
As  he  shakes  his  hoary  head. 

Even  as  the  tree-tops  shake 

When  o'er  them  the  wind  has  sped. 

"Nay,  O  King,  by  Heaven,  nay: 
Thou  the  traitor  art  most  great. 

Since  to  this  land  thou  hast  brought 
Grievous  curse  anil  heavy  weight. 

Blood  and  life  the  land  hath  spent 
Freely  for  thee  and  thy  throne, 

And  requited  is  with  hate  ; — 
Why  ?  is  known  to  God  alone. 

Either  we  our  ancient  rights 
Will  by  strength  of  arm  regain. 

Or,  dear  comrades,  we  will  fall 
Fighting  for  it  might  and  main. 

But,  since  thou  hast  wronged  our  land, 
None  of  these  will  bend  the  kijee, 

Nor  will  Kont  of  Hedervar 
Ever,  tyrant,  bow  to  thee." 

Thus  did  Kont,  the  hero,  speak. 

Filled  with  wrath  and  courage  now: 

Rather  would  he  go  to  death 
Than  before  the  tyrant  bow. 

AVrathfully  the  King  replies — 
Great  and  fearful  is  his  ire — 

"Death  be  thine,  as  dire  a  death 
As  thy  treason  hath  been  dire. 


—    97    — 

Death  be  thine  who  even  here, 
Stubborn  leader,  dost  incite!" 

And  behind  the  thirty  knights 

Stands  the  headsman  dark  as  night. 

Pales  the  crowd;  the  hero  stands, 
Likewise  does  his  knightly  ring. 

While  the  stern  eye  scans  them  o'er 
Of  Zsigmond  the  tyrant  King. 

Now  the  thirty  nobles  pass 
Singly  to  the  place  of  doom. 

Till  the  headsman  has  to  pause 
Tired,  and  then  his  work  resume. 

With  the  calm,  still  air  around 
From  them  not  a  murmur  blends; 

But  from  out  the  watching  crowd 
Now  a  smothered  groan  ascends. 

Who  is  this  that  now  appears. 

Last  of  thirty,  last  of  all? 
He,  the  glorious  one,  is  kept 

Till  he  sees  his  comrades  fall. 

As  the  pride  of  ancient  woods 
Stands  he  like  the  giant  oak; 

And  the  very  headsman  quails. 
Fears  to  deal  the  fatal  stroke. 

Waits  the  oak  the  woodsman's  blow: 
Thus  the  hero  stands  to  wait. 

Gazing  in  the  headsman's  eye — 
Kont,  the  powerful  and  great. 

As  a  hero,  as  a  man, 

Thus  it  is  he  fain  would  die. 
Patriot  he,  not  criminal. 

Standing  on  the  scaffold  high. 


—     98     — 

For  a  mean  and  paltry  life 

Criminals  their  God  deny: 
To  the  hero  death  but  comes 

Glory's  wreaths  to  beautify. 

"My  death  and  the  death  of  these 

Is  a  bloody  martyrdom, 
Whence  the  land  will  gain  much  good, 

But  to  Zsigmund  curse  will  come!" 

Thus  the  hero  spoke;  the  day 
Darkens  at  the  headsman's  blow: 

So  with  thirty  nobles  died 

Kont,  the  brave  and  mighty  foe. 

With  the  calm,  still  air  around 
From  them  not  a  murmur  blends; 

But  from  out  the  watching  crowd 
Now  an  ominous  cry  ascends. 

And  the  tyrant  Zsigmund's  blood 
Freez3s  straightway  in  his  heart: 

"Since  thy  sentence  is  unjust 
Thou  the  people's  prisoner  art  I" 


THE   MAGYAK   LADY. 

MAGYAR  HOLGY. 

Thou  wert  a  Magyar  Lady  born^ 

Be  proud  of  this  thy  fate; 

Exalted  is  in  all  men's  thought 

A  Magyar  Lady's  state. 

O  women,  who  your  beauty's  charm 

And  power  supreme  do  know, 

From  Heaven  a  mission  you  have  got; 

Blessed  are  you  here  below. 

God  made  thee  beautiful  because 

A  woman  he  designed: 

The  fragrant  flower  of  life  thou  art 


99 


Most  perfect  of  its  kind. 

A  gem,  a  precious  pearl  thou  art 

Found  in  the  heart's  deep  sea; 

A  star  which  shines  within  love's  sky 

Forever  brilliantly. 

Two  missions  most  divine  are  thine, 

Thou  canst  not  fail  to  know — 

To  be  a  Lady  and  thy  love 

On  thy  dear  land  bestow. 

To  live,  to  love,  and  loved  to  be 

Is  not  alone  thy  goal; 

As  Magyar  wife,  fate  gives  thee  now 

A  nobler  sphere  of  soul. 

Thou  art  the  daughter  of  this  land 
Too  long  in  gloom  o'er  cast, 
The  mother  of  a  rising  race 
Which  now  wakes  up  at  last. 
For  thee  it  cannot  be  enough 
O'er  stagnant  pools  to  shine, 
Oc  even  a  beauteous  flower  to  be, 
Placed  on  a  graveyard  shrine. 

Thy  lot  to  duty  'tis  to  call 

Thy  father,  and  to  lead 

Thy  husband  to  the  patriot  ranks 

Who  give  their  lives'  poor  meed 

Willingly  for  their  native  land. 

And  thine  the  mother's  call. 

Which  with  the  patriot's  zeal  inspires 

And  moves  thy  children  all. 

That  unity  may  have  a  home 

Where  it  had  none  before; 

Let  all  thy  sons'  and  daughters'  hearts. 

With  love  of  home  brim  o'er. 

Let  Arpad's  race  in  one  be  linked, 

One  circling  diadem. 

And  of  this  shining  coronal 

Be  thou  the  central  gem. 


—     100     — 

Thou  wert  a  Magyar  Lady  born, 

Be  proud  of  this  thy  fate; 

The  genius  of  one's  land  to  be — 

That  is  a  lot  most  great. 

O 'Women,  who  your  beauty's  charm 

And  power  supreme  do  know, 

From  Heaven  a  mission  you  have  got; 

Blessed  are  you  here  below. 


THE   PILGKIM. 

A   ZARANDOK. 

Be  went  into  the  holy  land, 
A  friar,  to  atone; 

Olad  in  a  cowl,  with  ash  bestrewn. 
He  wandered  far  alone. 

He  cast  away  his  shoes  that,  while 
He  wanders  in  the  heat, 
The  stones  and  thorns  upon  the  road 
May  freely  pierce  his  feet. 

He  mortified  himself  with  fasts 
And  thirsf  s  most  burning  pain; 
To  wrongs  he  bowed  and  yet  he  did 
Others  to  wrong  disdain. 

Throughout  his  weary  pilgrimage 
Devoutly  still  he  prayed, 
Yet  from  his  soul  he  could  not  lift 
The  weight  of  sin  there  laid. 

From  Palestine  to  Kome  he  went, 
His  anguish  naught  can  ease. 
Before  his  Holiness  the  Pope 
He  fell  upon  his  knees. 

"O,  Holy  Father,  tell  me,  pray" — 
His  tears  did  freely  flow — 
"Will  Heaven  on  me  for  my  dark  crime 
Forgiveness  yet  bestow?" 


—     IQl     — 

Then,  tremblingly,  he  did  confess 
His  crime.     The  Pope  arose. 
Stricken  with  awe,  his  kindly  face 
Did  anger  stern  disclose. 

His  eyes  w^hich  ever  gleamed  with  grace 
Then  burned  with  wrath  and  fire. 
And  like  the  thunder  of  the  sky 
He  spake  in  deepest  ire: 

"Almighty  God  alone  forgives, 
Mercy  is  in  His  hand! 
But  not  even  He  hath  pardon  for 
Treason  to  fatherland!" 


FRANCIS  KOLCSEY. 


HYMN. 

HYMNUS. 


O,  my  God,  the  Magyar  bless 
With  thy  plenty  and  good  cheer! 
With  thine  aid  his  just  cause  press, 
Where  his  foes  to  fight  appear; 
Fate,  who  for  so  long  didst  frown. 
Bring  him  happy  times  and  ways: 
Atoning  sorrow  hath  weighed  down 
Sins  of  past  and  future  days. 

By  thy  help  our  fathers  gained 
Ka math's  proud  and  sacred  height, 
Here  by  thee  a  home  obtained 
Heirs  of  Bendeguz,  the  knight. 
Where'er  Danube's  waters  flow 
And  the  streams  of  Tisza  swell, 
Arpad's  children,  thou  dost  know, 
Flourished  and  did  prosper  well. 


—     102     — 

For  us  let  the  goldeii  grain 

Grow  upon  the  fields  of  Kiin, 

And  let  Nectar's  golden  rain 

Kipen  grapes  of  Tokay  soon. 

Thou  our  flag  hast  planted  o'er 

Forts  where  once  wild  Turks  held  sway; 

Proud  Vienna  suffered  sore 

From  King  Matyjis'  dark  array. 

But,  alas,  for  our  misdeed, 

Anger  rose  within  thy  breast. 

And  thy  lightnings  thou  didst  speed 

From  thy  thundering  sky  with  zest. 

Now  the  Mongol  arrow  flew 

Over  our  devoted  heads; 

Or  the  Turkish  yoke  we  knew, 

Which  a  free-born  nation  dreads. 

O,  how  often  has  the  voice 
Sounded  of  wild  Ozman's  hordes. 
When  in  songs  they  did  rejoice 
O'er  our  heroes'  captured  swords? 
Yea,  how  often  rose  thy  sons 
My  fair  Land,  upon  thy  sod, 
And  thou  gavest  to  these  sons 
Tombs  within  the  breast  they  trod! 

Though  in  caves  the  chased  onejie, 
Even  then  he  fears  attacks. 
Coming  forth  the  land  to  spy 
Even  a  home  he  finds  he  lacks. 
Mountain,  vale,  go  where  he  would. 
Grief  and  sorrow  all  the  same — 
Underneath  a  flood  of  blood,- 
And  above  a  sea  of  flame. 

'Neath  the  fort,  a  ruin  now, 
Joy  and  pleasure  erst  were  found. 
Only  groans  and  sighs,  I  trow. 
In  its  limitc  now  abound. 


—     103     — 

But  no  freedom's  flowers  return 
From  the  spilt  blood  of  the  dead, 
And  the  tears  of  slavery  burn 
Which  the  eyes  of  orphans  shed. 

Pity,  God,  the  Magyar,  then. 
Long  by  waves  of  danger  tossed. 
Help  him  by  thy  strong  hand  when 
On  grief's  sea  he  may  be  lost. 
Fate,  who,  for  so  long,  didst  frown, 
Bring  him  happy  times  and  ways: 
Atoning  sorrow  hath  weighed  down 
Sins  of  past  and  future  days. 


IN   WILHELMINE'S   ALBUM. 


Every  flower  of  my  days 
Which  the  fates  may  bring  to  me, 
Grief-sown,  joy-sown,  though  it  be. 
Grown  in  glad  or  grievous  ways, 

Love  and  friendship  true 

I  dedicate  to  you! 

Every  flower  of  my  days 

Twine  I  gayly  in  my  hair; 

Now  the  sky  is  dull,  now  fair; 

Spring  new  roses  still  doth  raise. 
Love  and  friendship  true 
While  dwell  with  me  ye  two! 

Every  flower  of  my  days 
At  my  grave  in  time  shall  fade; 
'Of  my  rest  the  hallowed  shade, 
^here  no  pain  or  sorrow  preys, 
Love  and  friendship  true 
I  then  shall  find  in  you! 


JOSEPH  BAJZA. 


F  A  E  E  W  E  L  L. 

ISTLN    UOZZAl). 

The  wanderer  looks  back  from  the  hill; 
Below  lies  stretched  his  lovely  home, 
Before  him  smiles  the  charming  plain; 
But  in  the  ear  of  him  who  goes 
The  sad  fond  words  of  parting  swell; 
His  heart  still  bleeds,  his  heart  feels  pain: 
"O,  exile,  wanderer,  farewell!" 

The  hill  is  passed,  in  valleys  deep 

He  only  sees  clouds  from  his  home, 

Vanished  is  now  the  charming  plain, 

But,  ah,  his  sadness  leaves  him  not. 

His  heart  still  bleeds,  his  heart  feels  pain. 

He  ever  hears  the  echoes  swell: 

"O,  exile,  wanderer,  farewell!" 

Even  hill  and  vale  are  also  lost, 

No  clouds  from  home  he  more  can  see; 

A  vision  is  the  charming  plain. 

His  pains  pursue  him  like  the  sky.- 

His  heart  still  bleeds,  his  heart  feels  pain, . 

In  deepest  grief  his  wail  does  swell: 

"O,  beauteous  fatherland,  farewell!'' 

The  years  roll  by,  his  hair  is  gray: 

Forgotten  long  he  is  at  home. 

But  ever  will  the  charming  plain 

Before  his  soul  in  splendor  stand. 

His  heart  still  bleeds,  his  heart  feels  pain... 

I  hear  his  dying  accents  swell: 

"O,  beauteous  fatherland,  farewell!." 


—    105    — 
A   SIGH. 

SOHAJTAS. 

Thy  past  is  bare  of  joy; 
Hopeless  thy  days  indeed! 
Decaying,  beauteous  home, 
For  thee  my  heart  doth  bleed.. 

For  thee  doth  still  complain 
In  accents  sad  my  lay; 
Beneath  thy  stormy  clouds 
My  life  is  all  dismay. 

After  such  great  attempts 
From  out  a  turbid  stream 
To  gain  at  length  the  shore, 
No  guiding  star  doth  gleam. 

Thou  who  didst  hearts  create, 
And  taught'st  them  how  to  feel 
For  hearth  and  fatherland 
With  love- enduring  zeal: 

Whose  might  prescribes  all  laws,.. 
All  futures 'doth  forecast: 
O,  God  of  Nations,  send 
A  ray  of  hope  at  last! 


CHAS.  SZASZ. 


HUNGARIAN   MUSIC. 

MAGYAR  ZENE. 
Dedicated  to  Edouard  Remeiiyi. 

Hear  the  violin's  voice,  O,  hearken 
How  she  weeps  and  speaks  distress! 
That  in  four  chords  so  much  sorrow 
Is  confined  one  scarce  would  guess.. 


-     106     — 

Do  jou  hear  her  plaint>e  sighing, 
Like  the  nightingale  love-lorn; 
Like  an  orphan,  hear  her  crying, 
Who  a  mother's  loss  doth  mourn! 

Hear  the  violin's  voice,  O,  hearken  I 

List  the  chant  her  strings  indite, 

Low  at  first,  then  loudly  bursting 

Into  Eakoczy's  wild  fight. 

Overwhelming  and  inspiring 

Is  her  plaint;  all  grief  and  pain 

Die  before  hope's  noble  future, 

Buried  with  the  past  remain. 

Curses  breathes  she;  swords  are  clashing; 

Like  the  curse  resoundeth  far 

War's  wild  din,  yet  all  these  voices 

By  one  weak  bow  summoned  are. 

Hear  the  chords  once  more,  O,  hearken! 
To  the  people  they  speak  plain, 
And  the  nation's  joy  and  sorrow 
Find  their  echo  in  the  strain. 
Now  a  whoop  and  now  a  whistle 
Sends  the  Csikos  from  his  chest. 
When,  in  Csjirdrts'  dance,  he  presses 
His  brown  sweetheart  to  his  breast. 

Then,  afield,  the  maiden-reaper^ 

Sings  a  light  and  merry  lay, 

That  doth  swell,  then,  fuller  sounding, 

In  the  distance  dies  away. 

Now  the  sad  song  of  the  lover 

To  his  maiden  false  doth  sigh 

Forth  its  plaint  from  out  his  casement 

Nightly  to  the  starlit  sky. 

Now  the  moan  of  our  great  sorrow 
Which  these  hundred  years  doth  pain — 
And,  at  this  most  anguished  grieving. 
Like  to  break  the  chords  now  strain. 


—     107     — 

Hear  the  violin's  voice,  O,  hearken! 
Now  in  glee,  now  in  distress: 
That  in  four  chords  so  much  sorrow 
Is  confined  one  scarce  would  guess. 


NIGHTINGALE'S   SONG. 

FULtMILE   DaLA. 

A  small,  brown  nightingale  sings  there, 
In  coverts  hidden — who  knows  where? 
None  listens  save  myself  alone. 
And  my  heart  throbs  at  every  tone. 

Upon  the  velvet  grass  I  lie. 
Beneath  a  shady  tree  close  by. 
The  bird  doth  still  her  lay  prolong; 
I  listen  to  the  charming  song. 

The  breeze  away  the  tune  doth  waft, 
But  in  my  heart  'tis  echoed  soft — 
Yea,  it  is  echoed  in  my  soul 
As  sad,  as  lovely  in  its  dole. 

And  thus  the  little  bird  doth  sing — 
"Life  but  one  summer  hath  to  bring, 
And,  when  this  summer  fair  doth  wane. 
Sere  leaves  and  sapless  twigs  remain." 


o- 


—     108    - 

MY   NATIVE   COUNTKY'S   CHAKMING 
BOUNDS. 

My  native  country's  charming  bounds, 
Will  I  again  behold  thy  grounds? 
Where'er  I  stand,  where'er  I  fare. 
Mine  eyes  still  turn  towards  thee  there. 

I  ask  it  of  the  birds  which  come, 
If  still  doth  bloom  my  native  home? 
I  ask  it  of  the  clouds  on  high, 
Of  zephyrs  which  around  me  sigh. 


5 

1a^ 


But  none  of  these  at  all  console 
But  pass  and  leave  me  in  my  dole 
With  sore  heart  I  am  left  alone — 
As  grass-blade  growing  by  a  stone. 

Delightful  spot  where  I  was  born. 
Far  from  thee  I  by  fate  am  torn. 
Far  as  a  leaf  caught  from  a  tree 
And  borne  by  tempests  to  the  sea. 

KiSFALUDY    KaROLY. 


THE   BIRD   TO   ITS   BROOD. 

A   MADaR  FIaIHOZ. 

How  long,  ye  birds,  on  this  sere  bough 

Will  ye  sit  mute,  as  though  in  tears? 
Not  quite  forgotten  yet  are  now 

The  songs  I  taught  you,  surely,  dears; 
But  if  for  aye  are  vanished  quite 

Your  former  cheer,  your  song  so  gay, 
A  sad  and  wistful  tune  indite, 

O,  children,  sing  to  me,  I  pray. 

A  storm  has  been;  our  rocks  apart 
Are  rent;  glad  shade  you  cannot  find: 

And  are  ye  mute,  about  to  start 

And  leave  your  mother  sad  behind?. 


—     109     — 

In  other  climes  new  songs  are  heard. 
Where  none  would  understand  ^our  lay 

Though  empty  is  your  home  and  bared, 
Yet,  children,  sing  to  me,  I  pray. 

In  memory  of  this  hallowed  bower 

Shady  and  green,  call  forth  a  strain. 
Greet  the  time  coming,  when  in  flower 

These  barren  fields  shall  bloom  again. 
So,  at  your  song,  aneAv  shall  life 

O'er  this  dead  plain  with  ease  make  way, 
Sweetening  to-day  with  sorrow  rife: 

O,  children,  sing  to  me,  I  pray. 

Here  in  the  tree  is  the  old  nest 

Where  you  were  cherished  lovingly 
Return  to  it  again  and  rest 

Albeit  among  the  clouds  you  fly; 
Now  that  the  storm  has  laid  it  bare 

Would  you  the  traits  of  men  display; 
Leaving  this  place,  your  home  transfer? 

O,  children,  sing  to  me,  I  pray. 

Michael  Tompa. 


-0- 


DEATH. 

HALAL. 

0  no!  that  is  not  death  which  death  we  call. 
When  on  our  coffin  clods  of  earth  do  fall; 
That  is  not  death,  when  o'er  us  shadows  creep 
And,  mouldering,  we  are  laid  in  endless  sleep; 
Nor  call  that  death  when  for  us  others  shed 
Tears,  true  or  false,  over  our  narrow  bed. 
Ah!  that  is  death  and  that  is  death  alone. 
When  Ave  our  own  existence  do  bemoan. 

1  recollect — I  knew  a  happy  boy. 
Bright,  playful,  winsome,  ever  full  of  joy. 
Now,  for  wild  honey,  he  the  trees  would  climb. 
His  mother  he  would  tease  another  time; 


—     110     — 

O,  boundless  mother-love!  his  greatest  bliss 
He  found  in  her  embrace  and  tender  kiss. 
That  bov,  so  happy  once,  is  dead — alas! 
I  was  that  boy  myself;  but  let  this  pass. 

And  then  I  knew  a  youth:  no  human  soul 

So  passionately  loved!  his  highest  goal 

Was  love;  despising  every  other  thing 

To  him  naught  else  save  love  could  pleasure  bring. 

O,  how  he  loved!  and  then  this  poor  youth  died; 

For  him,  alas,  most  bitterly  I  cried. 

O,  could  some  spring  wake  him  to  life  again! 

I  was  this  youth;  my  hopes  are  all  in  Fain. 

There  was  a  man,  honest  and  trne,  no  vice 
He  knew.     Truth,  honor,  faith  and  sacrifice 
Made  up  his  life.     Gratitude  is,  he  thought. 
And  that  all  deeds  of  men  with  good  are  fraught. 
But  even  this  man  was  poisoned;  he  soon  found 
Base  selfishness  on  all  sides  to  abound. 
Why  was  his  faith  so  strong?  Why  did  he  trust? 
He  might  be  living  now,  not  turned  to  dust. 

Ay,  ay!  we  often  die,  more  often  than 

The  swift  brook- bubbles  o'er  the  pebbles  can : 

They  burst  and,  changing  form,  come  forth  again; 

Death  in  the  graveyard  doth  not  solely  reign. 

Even  here,  in  life,  to  die  we  oft  are  fain; 

Feel  we  have  long  been  dead,  yet  hand  and  brain 

Work  still  and  move.     This  is  not  life  we  know; 

'T  will  but  removal  be  when  hence,  we  go. 

COLOMAN    TOTH. 


THE   KUBY   PEAK. 

A  RUBINT   TOEONY. 

The  chamois  hunter  hunts  his  game 
O'er  mountain  peak  and  vale  the  same. 
O'er  highlands,  by  the  calm  blae  mere. 
Where  browse  the  goats  and  dappled  deer; 
And  where  the  sheep-girl's  song  sounds  near. 


Ill 


The  hunted  chamois  speeds  away, 

In  silence  dies  the  maiden's  lay, 

The  lake  reflects  the  heaven's  light, 
Love  in  the  eye  is  mirrored  bright; 
"Dearest,  be  my  sweetheart  this  night. '^ 

The  eager  youth  says  yearningly — 

"My  little  maiden  come  with  me; 
Be  mistress  of  my  humble  cot 
Where  in  the  woods  I  cast  my  lot; 
A  paradise  't  will  be,  I  wot." 

The  playful  maiden  answers  straight — 
"To  gain  this  hand  the  cost  is  great: 
Behold  on  yonder  mountain's  brow 
That  ruby  which  doth  glisten  now. 
That  ruby  is  the  price,  I  vow." 

Bright  gleam  the  chamois  hunter's  eyes;. 

None,  as  a  marksman  with  him  vies; 
His  arrow  spans  the  bent  bowstring. 
Then,  like  a  lightning-flash,  doth  wing 
And  quick  the  ruby  down  doth  bring. 

"I  have  it!  nay,  where  hath  it  sped?" 

The  ripples  of  the  lake  show  red! 
The  water-fairy  smiling  cries — 
"Come  for  the  stone,  see,  here  it  lies, 
Surely,  the  bride  the  gem  will  prize!" 

Into  the  deep  descends  the  youth. 

No  more  to  rise  again,  in  sooth. 

The  mermaid  who  doth  own  the  place 
Loves  him,  and  in  her  charmed  embrace 
Holds  him;  the  lipples  leave  no  trace. 

The  bride  doth  wait  and  wait  in  vain. 
Her  bosom  filled  with  anxious  pain. 
With  dread  her  broken  heart  is  rent, 
Till,  all  its  hope  and  treasure  spent. 
To  seek  her  youth  she  also  went. 

Ladislaus  NevY. 


—    112    — 
PEETTY   GIRL. 

SZEP  LEAXY. 

Pearling  streamlet,  tell  to  me, 
Doth  my  sweetheart  bathe  in  thee? 
Do  thy  pearly  dews  delight 
My  fair  dove  to  wash  snow-white? 

Velvet  sward,  O,  say  to  me, 
Doth  my  sweetheart  rest  on  thee? 
Doth  her  heaving,  snowy  breast 
Breathe  with  fragrant  roses'  zest? 

Gloomy  forest,  answer  me. 
Doth  my  sweetheart  roam  in  thee? 
Do  the  fierce  southwinds  that  go. 
Spare  on  her  milky  cheek  to  blow? 

Birds  that  in  the  plain  rejoice. 
Do  you  hear  my  sweetheart's  voice? 
To  her  lips  do  blithely  leap 
Carols  from  her  bosom's  deep? 

Nightingale  that  sad  dost  trill. 
Ne'er  thy  note  her  ear  should  thrill; 
Did  she  hear  thee,  she  would  vie 
With  thee  and,  heart-broken,  die. 

Geegorius  Czuczor. 


SPRING   SONG. 

TAVASZI   DAL. 

Here,  in  a  field  I  stand 
Heaven's  peace  doth  now  expand 
My  heart,  and  in  my  ear 
I  distant  murmuring  hear: 

As  when  the  people  raise 
In  church  the  voice  of  praise, 
Even  thus  now  moved  am  I 
To  holy  thoughts  and  high. 


—     113     — 

In  springtide's  field  I  stand; 
Above  sigh  zephyrs  bland: 
I  feel  as  though  I  trod 
The  very  House  of  God. 

John  Ekdclyi. 


MISS   AGATHA. 


Hee  father  was  a  county  judge,  and  all 
His  property — a  farm  and  homestead  small — 
He  left  to  her;  and,  like  her  father,  she 
From  courts  of  law  is  never  wholly  free. 
Like  him,  in  suits  she  takes  supreme  delight, 
And  has  one  claim  for  which  she  still  must  fight. 

Strange  is  her  claim,  and  such  as  of  it  hear 
Involuntary  smile  or  drop  a  tear. 
To  those  who  list  she  tells  her  piteous  tale, 
Expecting  them  her  grievance  to  bewail; 
And  sympathetic  say,  "your  wrong  is  great — 
Heavy  the  cross  imposed  on  you  by  fate!" 

'Tis  years  since  first,  her  sad  complaint  to  lay 
Before  the  councillors,  she  made  her  way: 
"Below  my  garden  is  my  murderous  foe, 
The  wild  stream,  Koros,  who  has,  long  ago, 
To  rob  me  of  my  heritage  begun. 
And  will  not  cease,  I  fear,  till  he  has  won." 

To  humor  her  the  council,  when  they  meet, 

Kesolve  to  send  some  delegates  to  greet 

The  angry  stream,  and  ask  it  to  forbear, 

Since  when  they  have  of  nicknames  had  their  share; 

Albeit  their  eloquence  was  spent  in  vain. 

The  stream  was  at  its  wild  work  soon  again. 

Then  to  the  county  chief  judge  she  doth  wend 
With  a  petition,  which  her  own  hand  penned; 
Many  quaint  characters  it  doth  contain, 


114 


She  deems  that  thus  importance  it  may  gain; 
And,  lest  the  quill's  unaided  work  prove  vain. 
To  press  her  work  in  person  she  is  fain. 

Her  ancient  fur-trimmed  cloak  doth  form  her  gear, 
Before  the  judge  she  would  not  else  appear; 
A  large  gold  chain  adorns  her  withered  neck, 
Long  elbow-gloves  her  hands  and  arms  bedeck; 
Old-fashioned  courtesy  marks  her  greeting  now: 
Her  mother  in  such  wise  did  doubtless  bow. 

"Your  Excellency," — then  her  tears  break  out; 
His  Worship  feels  uneasy,  shifts  about, 
Soothes  her,  and  calls  her  kindly,  "my  dear  child,'' 
He  must  make  ending  of  her  anguish  wild; 
The  county  her  endangered  place  will  buy. 
Pay  her,  and  all  her  loss  indemnify. 

Miss  Agatha  springs  up — ''Of  no  avail, 

My  ancient  property  is  not  for  sale; 

No  wealth  or  prize  for  it  could  make  amend; 

This  little  garden  is  my  only  friend; 

The  quiet  nursery  of  my  memories  dear 

I  can  not,  will  not,  part  with;  it  is  here. 

"Each  sod  endeared  to  me  is,  in  good  sooth, 
Eeminds  me  of  things  precious,  of  my  youth. 
Of  spring-time,  such  as  since  I  have  not  seen. 
And  of  the  song  which  only  once,  I  Aveen, 
The  nightingale  within  the  heart  doth  shed: — 
A  living  message  from  my  love,  long  dead. 

"By  moonlight  in  my  garden,  wet  with  dew, 
A  rosebush  once  was  planted  by  us  two; 
And  then  he  Avent.     At  freedom's  call  he  rose, 
Where  his  grave  is  to-day  God  only  knows. 
Last  at  Kapolna's  battle  he  Avas  seen, 
Alas! — and  yet  the  rosebush  still  blooms  green. 

"I  will  defend  the  spot  Avhere  now  it  stands: 
Give  my  petition  back  into  my  hands. 
Straight  to  the  King  himself  I  noAV  Avill  go. 


—     115     — 

Who  will  secure  to  me  my  riglit,  I  know. 
He  will  command  the  county  to  protect 
Me,  a  poor  orphan,  and  my  claims  respect." 

On  autumn's  yellowing  leaves  the  dew-drops  play; 

Miss  Agatha  grows  older  every  day; 

Scarce  in  her  locks  can  one  dark  hair  be  found. 

Where  formerly  black  tresses  did  abound. 

Her  once  bright  eyes  to  dimness  she  hath  cried^ 

Her  trembling  hand  the  pen  can  scarcely  guide. 

Morose  she  hath  become;  she  is  not  seen, 

As  formerly,  oft  in  her  garden  green: 

With  pain  alone  the  ruin  she  can  view; 

With  fear  the  murderous  Koros  thrills  her  through. 

Still  flows  the  stream  which  washeth  strife  away, 

Endangering  the  rose-bush  day  by  day. 

On  one  spring  eve,  beside  her  rosebush  there,. 
Yearning,  she  dreameth  of  the  past  so  fair; 
Its  scent  brings  thoughts  of  him  who  doth  await 
Their  meeting;  memory  calls  up  straight 
The  song  of  nightingales  heard  sweet  above, 
And  recollections  of  her  fond  true  love. 

By  stealth  her  neighbors  kind  and  true  unite. 
Dig  up  the  rosebush  by  the  roots  at  night; 
And,  yearly,  prompted  by  sweet  charity. 
Plant  it  unto  her  dwelling-place  more  nighr 
Her  many  tears  have  made  her  blind,  I  wot; 
Gone  is  the  garden — but  she  sees  it  not. 

Joseph  Kiss. 

APOTHEOSIS.^ 


O'er  Osman's  land  dread  night  doth  brood; 
All  round  is  gloomy  quietude; 
The  owl  doth  hoot,  the  bat  doth  cry — 
"The  land  is  sick,  the  land  must  die!" 


—     116     — 

Bloodthirsty  beasts  appear  ahead 
To  claim  the  body,  ere  'tis  dead: 
The  vampire  and  the  owl  alight, 
Over  the  nation's  soul  to  fight.    • 
Before  the  hour  of  midnight  dies, 
A  ghastly  crowd  of  ghosts  doth  rise. 
The  diggers  did  their  duty  well, 
The  grave  is  dug,  now  sounds  the  knell. 

"The  time  has  come,  I  v/ill  not  stay, 
But  straight  will  ravish,  spoil  and  slay!" 
The  demon  cries  whose  name  is  legion, 
"Murder!  nay,  call  it  now  religion! 
O,  o!"  he  cries'  "destroy  the  nation. 
Leave  it  no  hope  or  consolation! 
Say  that  it  is  thy  faith's  command! 
Burn  cities  over  all  the  land! 
Destroy  the  race,  it  is  but  wild, 
Kill  first  the  mother,  then  her  child; 
A  mountain  of  dead  corpses  shall 
Proclaim  thou  hast  destroyed  them  all!" 

Ye  Gods,  is  this  a  war  where  woman's  tear 
And  children's  wailing  are  the  nations  call — 
^'To  arms!"  But,  sorry  sight!  no  one  is  near 
To  bring  about  the  brutal  foeman's  fall. 

Yet,  from  his  dreams  the  sick  at,  length  awakes 
And  calls  for  aid.     Who  heeds  his  call?  Alas, 
Who  knows  with  what  emotion  his  breast  shakes? 
Who  knows  what  pain  and  anguish  o'er  him  pass? 
Sympathy's  only  offerings  are  tears. 
An  unkept  promise  doth  a  debt  remain. 
The  fever- stricken  man  each  one  still  fears; 
Why  not?  Infection  may  bring  deadly  bane. 

But  see!  An  ally  comes  to  help  the  land; 
Irrefragable  is  his  strength  and  might. 
Without  his  aid  the  nations  cannot  stand; 
Without  his  help  it  is  in  vain  to  fight! 


—     117     — 

And  countless  is  his  army,  like  the  stars; 
And  never  doth  it  fail  to  earn  great  fame: 
His  aid  alone  decides  the  fate  of  wars, 
And  "Victory"  is  his  unfurled  banner's  name! 

Kingdoms  at  his  command  are  oft  cast  down, 
Or  are  secured  to  everlasting  fame  I 
He  makes  and  unmakes  nations,  and  doth  crown;: 
And  Patriotism  is  his  mighty  name. 

Those  whom  he  helps  no  other  aid  do  need. 
God,  who  protection  grants,  is  with  him  still. 
He  feels  no  pain;  the  wounds  are  sweet  that  bleed, 
And  resurrection  meaneth  death's  worst  ill. 
God's  wonders  are  with  him,  and  him  before 
A  fiery  pillar  goes,  to  plunge  again 
In  the  red  sea  of  Moses,  as  of  yore, 
Pharaoh's  great  army,  now  of  victory  fain! 


On  the  horizon  morning  nears 
And  bright  in  splendor  now  appears. 
"Ye  brutes  and  beasts,  away,  away! 
The  night  is  gone;  here  comes  a  ray 
Of  sun.     Jnto  your  dens!  Do  not 
Forget  the  lesson  you  have  got: 
There  is  a  God  above  us  all. 
Who  is  our  trust  and  hope  withal. 
This  God  is  One  where  earth  extends: 
From  Kcirpath's  hills  to  ocean's  ends 
He  reigns  supreme.     This  God  above — 
We  know  him  all— is  Patriot's  Love!'' 

Maukus  Jokai. 


— 0- 


—     118     — 
CHRIST   IN   ROME. 

— "And  as    ye  go,  preach;  .   .  .  freely  ye  have 

received,  freely  give.     Provide  neither  gold,  nor  silver, 
nor  brass  in  your  purses.''— St.  Matthew  x,  7 — 9. 


Dark  and  gloomy  is  the  charnel  cave: 

The  rays  avoid  its  foul  and  mouldy  air; 

The  ghosts  of  flying  time  alone  dwell  there, 
And  on  the  stones  sad  legends  they  engrave. 
O'er  the  cathedral's  proud  and  mighty  porch 

A  dreary  silence  reigns.     The  vaults  of  Death 
Below,  the  saints  of  stone  within  the  church, 

All,  all  are  mute.     No  whisper,  sound,  or  breath! 

Jjpl  from  the  dusk  a  figure  clad  in  white, 
A  marble  statue  come  to  life,  it  seems. 

Glides  forth.     His  grave,  sad  face,  in  infinite 
Love  and  sublimity,  with'  lustre  beams; 

As  if  devotion,  hope,  and  faith  more  great 

Than  ever  here  in  prayer  most  passionate 
Found  utterance,  God  had  with  life  imbued: 
Thus  show  His  eyes  divine  beatitude. 

Each  vault  a  grave;  above  each  grave  a  stone; 

Yet  He  their  proud  inscriptions  readeth  not: 

He  goeth  toward  an  ancient,  sacred  spot. 
To  Him,  alas!  it  is  but  too  well  known 
That  oft  is  undeserved  the  flattering  praise 

Which  upon  stones  men  often  thus  engrave. 
Though  now  'tis  sad,  soon  brighter  grows  His  face. 

Standing  at  the  Apostle  Peter's  grave. 

He  gently  lays  upon  the  stone  His  hand; 

The  church  and  porch  receive  a  mighty  shock; 

The  granite  columns  of  the  tomb  unlock. 
The  sleeping  corpse  beneath,  at  His  command, 

.Shakes  oif  the  dream  of  eighteen  hundred  years, 


—     119     — 

And,    stepping   forth,   trembling   with    hopes  and 

fears, 
He  recognizes  in  the  dawning  light 
His  Master  Great.  Divine  and  Infinite. 

He  falls  upon  his  knees  and,  bowing  low 
His  hoary  head,  he  kisses  on  the  feet 

And  hands  the  scars  of  wounds  got  long  ago. 
Falls  on  the  breast,  which  is  with  love  replete. 

^'O,  Saviour  mine!  Master  of  earth  and  sea! 

Master  of  all!"  ....  He  beckons:  "Come  with  me. 
Come,  let  us  find  how  men  commemorate 
My  Kesurrection,  falling  on  this  date." 

They  leave  the  church.     Without,  the  failing  night 
Wageth  fierce  conflict  with  the  rising  sun; 
The  dawn's  white  angel  soon  the  fight  hath  won; 

A  seeming  blood-stream  marks  a  demon's  flight; 
With  victory  flushed,  bringing  the  breaking  day. 
The  sun,  as  tribute,  sends  down  his  first  ray 

On  the  Messiah,  who,  in  rags  arrayed. 

Stands  there  like  one  who  begs  for  alms  and  aid. 

^'Thou  clad  in  rags!"  saith  Peter,  in  amaze. 

But  He  replies:  "Wealth  did  I  ever  own? 
Was  I  not  poor,  the  poorest,  all  my  days? 

Thouknowest  that  peace  and  love  were  mine  alone. 
With  these,  nigh  on  two  thousand  years  ago. 

The  world  I  did  redeem.     Come,  thou  shalt  know 
Whither  the  blood  I  sacrificed  did  flow 

And  what  fruit  from  this  dew  divine  did  grow! 

"Come,  let  me  see  the  way  our  heirs  now  wend, 
Whence    so  much  pain    and  grief  rise  from   this 

sphere. 

Each  curse  and  shriek  which  to  my  heav'n  ascend 
Here  in  its  cradle  thou  shalt  surely  hear; 

Let  us  see  how  is  my  behest  obeyed: 

^Be  simple,  plain,  and  with  the  poor  be  found; 

Xiove  thou  each  man  for  his  own  sake,  and  aid. 
Sharing  his  sufferings  when  they  most  abound.'  " 


—     120     — 

The  bells  ring  out,  proclaiming  holiday, 

In  regal  splendor  all  the  churches  seem! 
A  golden  cassock  which  bright  gems  array, 

A  sparkling  ring  and  chain  where  beauties  gleam. 
These,  with  a  pastoral  staff,  where  diamonds  blaze, 

Mark  one  whom  the  obeisant  crowd  do  raise 
Upon  their  shoulders  on  a  throne  all  red, 

While  on  each  gem  a  ray  of  sun  is  shed. 

Standing  erect,  the  Master  waits  close  by, 

To  watch  the  passing  of  the  Magnate's  show. 
"Down  on  your  knees!  Kneel  down!"  irate,  they  cry; 

A  halberdier  calls:   "Eagmen,  beggars,  go!" 
Pushing  Him  rudely  with  his  coarse,  base  hand. 

That  touch ....  a  drop  of  blood  from  out  His  side 
Falls  to  the  earth.     "And  who  is  this  so  grandf' 

"Know  you  not?  'Tis  Christ's  Vicar  sanctified!" 

"But  Christ  was  poor!"   "In  wealth  His  Yicar  rolls!"^ 

"Christ  walked  afoot!"  "But  borne  aloft  by  men 
Is  he  we  saw,  who  Christendom  controls!" 

"And  Christ  drove  not  away  the  beggars,  when 
They  came  to  him.     He  still  allayed  their  groans 

And  cured  and  blessed  them,  filling  them  with  hope;, 
Blessed  even  those  who  threw  at  him  with  stones." 

"Well,  He  was  Christ;  but  this,  this  is  the  Pope." 

"Come,  Master,  let  us  go.     Around  us  all  is  gay; 
We  are  not  wanted  here."  The  twain  then  go  their 

way. 

Evening  has  come.     The  priests  go  home  to  dine; 

In  all  refectories  bounteous  boards  are  spread, 
Laden  with  delicacies  and  fine  wine, 

All  the  world's  good  things  to  their  splendor  add. 
An  appetizing  fragrance  forth  doth  flow. 

Inviting  to  their  doors  a  hungry  horde. 
At  one  of  these  the  Master  knocketh  low. 

"Give,  and  it  shall  be  given  thee,"  said  the  Lord. 


121 


"To  hell!  Go  hence,  ye  lazy  beggars  all. 

Wait  for  the  kitchen-scraps,  were  you  not  told?" 
In  golden  letters  graved  is  on  the  wall: 

"One  shepherd  there  shall  then  be  and  one  fold."" 

And,  sick  at  heart.  He  goes  away,  and  sees 
Upon  the  walls  the  works  of  masters  old. 
Which  many  pictured  deeds  of  saints  unfold, 

Martin,  the  Saint,  who  gave  his  cloak  away; 
Elizabeth,  who  alms  did  never  spare;  ^ 

The  loaves  and  fishes  famous  from  His  day; 
The  fig-tree,  cursed  because  it  did  not  bear; 

And  then  the  Lord  Christ,  toiling  'neath  the  cross. 

How  beautiful  all  this!  He,  at  a  loss, 

Asks  Peter:  "What  is  this  place?  Tell  me!  Come!'' 
And  he  replies:  "This  is  the  Jesuits'  home!" 

Without,  upon  the  hot  stones  of  the  street, 
A  mendicant  and  wretched  crowd  await; 

Tarrying  till,  feasting  o'er,  they  get  their  treat. 
Their  thirst  and  hunger  all  the  time  are  great. 

One  of  the  crowd,  a  most  unhappy  wretch, 

Standeth  alone,  while  tears  roll  down  his  face. 

Into  this  crowd,  which  man  could  hardly  sketch. 
Stepped  the  Messiah,  with  bland,  godlike  grace.. 

"What  ails  thee?"  asks  He  of  this  wretched  one. 
"I  for  my  children  sinned.     Denied  to  me 
Was  absolution!"  "Sure,  'tis  known  to  thee 
That  God  forgives!"     "Yea,  but  when  f easting's 

done, 

I  shall  to-day  for  this  get  naught  to  eat. 

Naught  for  myself  or  for  my  children  sweet." 

Now  come  the  priests  .... 

*  The  banqueting  is  o'er .... 

"Then  let  us  go,"  the  beggar  said;   "for  we 

Will  sure  be  driven  off"."     But  Christ  doth  say: 


—     122     — 

•^'I  have  no  home."     "Then  come  along  with  me. 

No  bread  have  I,  but  where  thy  head  to  lay. 
That  which  I  have  I  will  divide  with  you.'' 
The  Master  at  these*words  most  happy  grew. 

Therewith  the  mendicant  convey eth  Him 

Through  many  a  devious,  dark,  and  lonely  street. 
A  hundred  sounding  bells  their  ears  do  greet, 

Which  celebrate  Christ's  rising.     Eve  grows  dim, 
And  in  the  distant  east  upon  the  sky 
Bright,  gleaming  stars  shine  forth  to  beautify, 

Flags  float  above,  from  every  quarter  round 

The  hallelujahs  (seeming  satire)  sound. 

"This  is  my  hut,"  the  beggar  now  doth  say. 

Within,  four  almost  nake  l  children  cry. 
The  Master  then  his  cloak  doth  cast  away. 

Five  bleeding  wounds  his  person  glorify. 
His  forehead  bleeds,  the  thorns  one  may  descry. 
"Know  me,"  He  calmly  saith,  "Lo!  it  is  I!" 

"O  Master,  I  believe!  My  hands  I  fold 

In  reverent  prayer!     I  love  and  I  believe! 

For  ours  Thou  art!  From  Thee  we  now  receive 
Aid  in  this  wretched  home,  so  bare  and  cold! 

But  not  for  wealth  or  earthly  joy  crave  I. 
'These  are  but  vain  and  paltry.     Grant  me  this: 

Before  Thy  bleeding,  nail-scarred  frame  to  die. 
That  were,  indeed,  to  me  the  greatest  bliss." 

In  grief  profound  the  Master  then  doth  speak. 

"Yea,  he  is  right.  His  bliss,  indeed,  excels 
Who  on  his  soul's  clean  wings  to  Heaven  is  borne; 

Not  his  who  on -the  earth  uncertain  dwells." 
....  "Come  with  me,  then,  and  testimony  bear 
That  precepts  holy,  for  which  wrong  I  bore, 

For  which,  two  thousand  years  ago,  I  died, 
To-day  are  scouted  from  the  rich  man's  door; 
That  on  this  earth,  redeemed  by  grace  divine. 
The  hut  and  sepulchre  alone  are  Mine!" 

Anthony  Vaeady. 


TRANSLATOR'S  NOTES. 


1)  "Mayfly,  Yellow  Mayfly" — Cserebogar,  sarga 
cserebogar,  is  the  opening  line  and  the  name  of  a  most 
popular  Hungarian  song. 

2)  Eger — German  Erlau,  a  town  in  the  county  of 
Hevesh,  celebrated  for  its  wine,  one  of  the  best  in 
Hungary. 

3)  DeLiBan — Fata  Morgana. 

4)  Solomon — King  of  Hungary  1004 — 1074. 

5)  FoT — A  little  village  in  the  county  of  Pest,  the 
<}ountry  residence  of  the  poet. 

6)  Among  the  proofs  of  guilt  in  superstitious  ages 
was  that  of  bleeding  the  corpse.  If  a  person  was  mur- 
dered, it  was  believed  that  at  the  touch  or  approach  of 
the  murderer  the  blood  would  gush  out  of  the  body. 

See  Trials  and  Proof's  of  Guilt  in  Superstitious 
Ages^  in  I.  D' Israeli's   Curiosities  of  Literature. 

7)  Apotheosis — Written  by  the  author  on  the  occa- 
sion of  a  benefit  performance  given  at  the  National 
Theatre  at  Budapest  in  aid  of  the  Turkish  wounded  in 

1877. 


ERRATA 


(Errors  of  punctuation  which  occur  in  this  volume  are 
not  corrected  here.) 

Page  11,  stanza  2,  line  4,  "I  am  a  Magyar"  for  "ne'er"" 
read  "never," 

Page  20,  stanza  4,  line  4,  for  "deathly"  read  "deadly." 

Page  37,  stanza  8,  line  2,  for  "fellows"  read  "fellow." 

do.         In  "The  Maniac"  line  6,  for  "to"  read  "do." 

Page  39,  line  18,  for  "o"  read  "of". 

Page  46,  stanza  2,  line  4  of  "Drunk  for  the  country' & 
for  "have"  read  "heal." 

Page  70,  stanza  4,  line  3,  for  "wrath"  read  "wroth." 

Page  75,  in  iitel,  for  "duell"  read  "duel." 

Page  76,  stanza  5,  line  2,  for  "nail"  read  "mail." 

Page   77,    stanza   4,    line   4,    for    "chanticlere"    read 
"chanticleer." 

Page  101,  stanza  2  of  "Hymn,"  line  2,  for  "Karoath's"' 
read  "Karpath's." 


INDEX 


Preface  ...... 

Sonnet       ...... 

A  Memoir  of  Alexander  Petofi  and  a  Review 

Hungary's  Poetical  Literature 
Alexander  Petofi         .... 

My  Songs  ..... 

The  Thought  Torments  Me      . 

In  My  Native  Land    . 

National  Song 

War-Song  ..... 

Farewell .         .         . 

At  the  End  of  the  Yea;- 

I  am  a  Magyar         •  \       • 

If  Born  a  Man,  Then  be  a  Man. 

Ragged  Heroes.  . 

On  a  Railroad     .... 

At  Home         .         .         . 

From  Afar  .... 

I  Dream  of  Gory  Days     . 

I  Dreamed  of  Wars     . 

If  God    .         . 

My  Wife  and  my  Sword 

Who  Would  Believe 

Voices  from  Eger 

Streamlet  and  Stream 

The  Imprisoned  Lion 

A  Holy  Grave  .  . 

Aunt  Sarah  .... 

The  Ruins  of  the  Inn 

The  Crown  of  the  Desert     . 

The  Good  Old  Landlord 

Two  Brothers      .... 

Wolf  Adventure 

The  Maniac         .... 

The  Last  Charity     . 

O,  Judge  me  not 

On  the  Danube        .         .         . 

In  the  Forest       .... 

What  is  the  Use 

At  the  Hamlet's  Outskirts    . 

The  Lowering  Clouds 


of 


Page. 

HI 
IV 

V 

3-50 
3 
4 

5 
6 

7 
8 
10 
II 
12 
14 

15 
16 

17 
18 

19 
19 
20 
21 

23 
25 
26 
27 
29 
30 
32 
34 
35 
36 

37 
40 
42 
43 
43 
43 
44 
45 


126     — 


Through  the  Village    . 

Drunk  for  the  Country's  Sake  . 

The  Rosebush  Shakes 

You  cannot  Bid  the  Flower 

Shepherd  Boy,  Poor  Shepherd  Boy 

Into  the  Kitchen  Door  I  strolled 

How  Vast  this  World 

My  Father's  Trade  and  my  own 

The  Magyar  Noble 
Michael  Vorosmarty  . 

A  Summons 

The  A  vary  Gipsy     . 

To  Francis  Liszt 

Solomon's  Curse 

The  bitter  Cup   . 

Beautiful  Helen        .  .  ' 

The  Song  from  Fot 
John  Arany        .... 

Ladislaus  V. 

Clara  Zach 

Call  to  the  Ordeal 

Midnight  Duel 

The  hero  Bor     . 

The  Ministrel's  Sorrow     . 

Mistress  Agnes 

The  Child  and  the  Rainbow 
Joseph  Eotvos        .         . 

Farewell 

My  Last  Will       . 

The  frozen  Child 
John  Garay 

Kont         .... 

The  Magyar  Lady 

The  Pilgrims    . 
Hymn  by  Francis  Kolcse\' 
In  W^ilhelmine's  x\lbum  by  the  same 
Farewell  by  Josep  Bajza 
A  Sigh  *  do. 

Hungarian  Music  l)y  Charles  Szasz 
Nightingale's  Song  do. 

My  Native  Country's  Charming  Bounds  by  Kis 

faludi  Karoly    .... 
The  Bird  to  its  Brood  by  Michael  Tompa 
Death  by  Coloman  Toth 
The  Ruby  Peak  by  Ladislaus  Nevy 
Pretty  Girl  by  Gregorius  Czuczor 
Spring  Song  by  John  Erdelyi 
Miss  Agatha  by  Joseph  Kiss 
Apotheosis  by  Maurus  Jokai    . 
Christ  in  Rome  by  Anthony  Varady    . 
Translator's  Notes  ..... 
Errata         ...... 


Page. 
46 
46 
47 
47 
48 
48 
49 
49 
50 
51-67 
51 
52 
54 
57 

58 
60 

64 
68—90 
68 
70 
73 
75 
78 
80 

83 
87 
91—95 
91 
93 
94 
95—101 

95 

98 

100 

lOI 

103 
104 
105 

105 
107 

108 
108 
109 
no 
112 

IT2 

113 
115 
118 
123 
124 


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